• 


,,; 

Sunfi 

A  BooH  c 

Kansas 
Po* 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


SUNFLOWERS 


SUNFLOWERS 


A  Book 

of 

KANSAS 
POEMS 


Selected 

by 

WILLARD 
WATTLES 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG 


Copyright 

A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co. 
1916 


Published  November,  1916 


•  *'  ' ' '       \  "','''<     '<',",      '-'/';     r    '• 


W.  «.  HALL  ntlNTINS  COMPANY,  CHICAGO 


Acknowledgments 


I  am  indebted  to  Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay,  and 
<;.  to  Mitchell  Kennerley  of  New  York  City  for  per- 
<£  mission  to  use  Lindsay's  Kansas  from  The  Forum 
•,  and  from  Adventures  While  Preaching  the  Gospel 
—  of  Beauty.    To  Smart  Set  for  Harry  Kemp's  Kan- 
\sas  and  London,  and  for  my  poem,  Manhood.    To 
^Harper's  Weekly  for  my  Sunflowers.    To  The  In 
dependent  for  my  Carrie  Nation. 
J>     To  Mr.  A.  G.  Allerton  of  Hamlin,  Kansas,  I  owe 
-^permission  to  use  the  poems  of  Ellen  P.  Allerton. 
r>Mr.  Charles  H.  Manley  of  Junction  City,  Kansas, 
^has  allowed  the  use  of  the  poems  of  Amanda  T. 
<^  Jones,  all  four  of  which  originally  appeared  in  the 
-^  Century  Magazine. 

"i     I  use  Funston  by  James  J.  Montague  as  it  origi- 

i^nally  appeared  in  the  New  York  American.    To  C.  L. 

Edson  I  am  indebted  for  sixteen  poems  from  The 

^Kansas  City  Star  and  The  New  York  Evening  Mail; 

$0  the  American  Magazine  for  Edson's  The  Prom- 

yse  of  Bread.    My  own  Kansas  verse  has  appeared 

°in  The  University  Kansan,  The  Graduate  Magazine, 

The  Journal-World,  The  Topeka  Capital,  and  The 

Springfield  Republican. 

W.  W. 


155696 


SUNFLOWERS 


Preface  to  First  Edition 


To  the  people  of  Kansas  I  dedicate  the  labor  of 
five  years;  not  mine  alone,  but  that  of  a  group  of 
friends  who  have  equally  given  of  their  time  to  this 
little  volume.  At  first,  my  only  intention  was  to 
collect  the  lyric  verse  of  living  Kansas  writers;  but 
as  the  conception  grew,  it  seemed  possible  to  include 
the  work  of  earlier  men  and  women  who  had  sensed 
the  significance  of  our  state  —  and  the  relatives  of 
those  early  authors  have  added  their  assistance  to 
that  of  my  other  friends. 

Yet,  in  no  way  is  this  collection  to  be  regarded  as  a 
complete  anthology  of  Kansas  verse.  My  earlier 
intention  has  restricted  my  choice  to  such  poems  as 
seem  to  be  especially  interpretative  of  the  state,  in 
the  way  Miss  Esther  M.  Clark's  Call  of  Kansas  is 
interpretative.  I  have  for  that  reason  omitted  some 
of  our  finest  Kansas  poetry,  such  as  Eugene  F. 
Ware's  famous  Washerwoman's  Song*  for  others 
of  his  poems  which  are  especially  local  in  their  ap 
peal.  Believing  that  provincialism  is  as  much  of  an 
essential  in  literature  as  it  is  a  bane  in  morality,  I 
have  chosen  those  poems  that  smack  unmistakably  of 
our  Kansas  soil  and  are  close  to  the  grass-roots.  It 
will  be  the  task  of  some  other  laborer,  when  our  lit 
erature  shall  have  been  more  completely  written,  to 


*  Included  in  the  new  edition. 


VI 


SUNFLOWERS 


garner  in  future  harvest-fields  the  richest  of  our 
grain. 

That  day  I  believe  will  come.  Much  more  has  al 
ready  been  done  than  many  of  us  realize.  A  host  of 
devoted  men  and  women,  among  them  Richard  Realf , 
Ellen  Allerton,  and  Amanda  T.  Jones,  not  forgetting 
that  New  England  champion  of  our  early  liberties, 
John  G.  Whittier,  has  already  set  the  name  of  Kansas 
in  "  song  and  oratory."  I  need  not  mention  the 
names  of  Paine,  Ingalls,  Mason,  Ware,  White,  Howe, 
Morgan,  Harger,  McCarter,  and  Carruth. 

Are  these  all  ?  There  is  even  now  a  younger  group, 
and  among  them  Harry  Kemp,  Esther  M.  Clark, 
Margaret  Lynn,  and  C.  L.  Edson,  now  of  the  New 
York  Evening  Mail.  What  they  are  doing  is  known 
beyond  the  barb  wire  fences  of  our  state.  Another 
westerner,  though  not  a  native,  has  interpreted  the 
message  and  significance  of  Kansas,  and  is  already 
acknowledged  as  a  vital  minister  of  the  Gospel  of 
Beauty  and  Democracy.  To  Mr.  Nicholas  Vachel 
Lindsay  are  due  the  thanks  of  the  State  of  Kansas 
as  well  as  the  thanks  of  America  for  his  even  broader 
service.  After  Walt  Whitman,  Harry  Kemp,  Lind 
say,  and  Witter  Bynner,  may  be  looked  to  as  the 
staunchest  servants  of  an  Ideal  Commonwealth 
among  the  poets  of  America,  It  has  been  my  priv 
ilege  to  know  the  three  now  living,  and  through  John 
Burroughs  to  know  the  master  of  them  all.  Except 
for  the  encouragement  of  such  men,  and  of  William 


vu 


SUNFLOWERS 


Herbert  Carruth  and  William  Hayes  Ward,  veteran 
editor  of  The  Independent,  I  doubt  if  this  collection 
would  have  been  possible. 

To  three  friends  I  owe  a  special  debt.  In  1911, 
Harry  Kemp  was  one  of  a  group  of  six  at  the  Uni 
versity  of  Kansas  to  publish  a  volume  called  Songs 
from  the  Hill.  At  that  time,  in  our  pardonable  en 
thusiasm,  we  argued  that,  since  the  centers  of  Amer 
ican  literature  had  moved  in  the  past  from  New  York 
in  the  days  of  Irving  and  Cooper  to  New  England  in 
the  days  of  Hawthorne  and  Emerson;  thence  in  a 
later  day  to  Indiana  and  Chicago;  overlooking  the 
fact  that  California  has  developed  a  literature  of  her 
own,  that  the  next  logical  camping  place  of  the  muses 
should  be  on  the  banks  of  the  "  Kaw,"  as  we  eupho 
niously  christen  our  muddy  Kansas  river.  After  Hy 
ing  for  three  years  in  New  England,  I  am  not  so 
certain  that  we  were  entirely  wrong.  "  If  that  be 
treason,  make  the  most  of  it."  Certainly,  I  shall  feel 
that  this  little  book  is  in  some  way  the  fulfillment  of 
that  enthusiastic  vision  of  Harry  Kemp. 

Two  years  ago,  while  Kemp  was  at  Helmetta,  New 
Jersey,  he  wrote  at  my  request  a  poem  Kansas  which 
I  print  in  thife  volume  as  the  feature  poem.  The 
poem  is  already  known  to  the  state  through  the 
newspapers,  but  I  have  the  privilege  of  giving  it  the 
first  permanent  publication.  I  received  yesterday 
from  New  York  the  following  telegram  from  Kemp 
in  regard  to  the  poem :  "  Yes,  I  wrote  it  for  you." 


VIll 


SUNFLOWERS 


Without  the  aid  of  Miss  Esther  M.  Clark  this  book 
could  not  have  been  prepared.  She  has  written  let 
ters,  prepared  my  copy,  and  helped  to  read  my  proof. 
I  cannot  sufficiently  thank  her.  I  can  do  it  best  in 
verse. 

To  Ivan  Shuler,  my  friend  and  schoolmate,  I  am 
indebted  for  the  drawings  *  on  which  he  spent  three 
years  of  patient  labor.  He,  like  myself,  was  reared 
on  a  Kansas  farm,  and  is  peculiarly  fitted  by  that 
inheritance  as  well  as  by  his  training  in  the  art  insti 
tutes  of  Chicago  and  New  York,  to  interpret  the 
spirit  of  Kansas.  It  is  my  highest  hope  that  this  book 
will  bring  him  the  recognition  he  deserves.  Julian 
Street  has  said  in  Colliers  Weekly  that  Kansas  has 
little  or  no  original  Kansas  art  —  and  Julian  Street 
is  more  or  less  right.  Julian  Street  is  a  journalist 
and  his  business  is  to  report  facts  as  he  finds  them. 
But  if  I  may  play  the  prophet  as  he  the  reporter,  I 
would  answer  all  critics  of  a  raw  and  crude  civiliza 
tion  such  as  is  unquestionably  ours  in  aesthetic 
matters,  in  the  words  of  Harry  Kemp: 

"  Let  other  countries  glory  in  their  Past, 
But  Kansas  glories  in  her  days  to  be." 

But  now  to  the  people  of  Kansas  I  must  say,  "  That 
depends  on  us  "  —  on  every  Kansan  whose  duty  it  is 
to  support  the  cultural  and  educative  institutions  of 


*  Omitted  from  second  edition  on  account  of  change  of  format. 


IX 


his  state,  to  bring  to  the  consideration  of  public  ques 
tions  a  mind  unswayed  by  provincialism  or  fanati 
cism,  with  the  simultaneous  obligation  of  not  forget 
ting,  when  that  culture  shall  have  been  attained,  that 
the  source  of  strength  and  beauty  alike  is  in  the  soil 
from  which  we  spring.  Whenever  a  culture  goes 
to  seed  at  the  top,  it  becomes  a  menace  to  society; 
and  if  the  choice  were  given  me  of  seeing  in  Kansas 
what  I  have  seen  of  culture  in  another  section  of 
America  —  and  I  do  not  mean  New  England  —  I 
should  say,  "  Culture  be  hanged  —  give  me  the 
prairie-dogs." 

And  here  I  wish  to  explain  that  whatever  I  have 
said  in  my  own  verse  in  contrasting  the  East  with  the 
West  is  not  leveled  at  the  people  of  the  East ;  for  my 
three  years  in  Amherst,  Massachusetts,  were  three 
of  the  happiest  and  most  valuable  of  my  life.  In 
many  ways  the  East  is  kinder  than  the  West  What 
I  do  object  to  in  the  East  is  the  mental  provincialism  * 
of  her  people,  which  is  as  marked  as  the  aesthetic 
provincialism  of  the  West  —  that  sort  of  attitude  on 
the  part  of  the  average  easterner  which  makes  him 


*  August  19,  1916.  A  good  friend  of  mine  from  Massachusetts 
who  has  just  returned  with  me  from  two  months  of  harvesting, 
haying,  and  ranching  in  Kansas,  Colorado,  Wyoming,  and 
Nebraska,  objects  to  my  saying  that  easterners  are  "mentally 
provincial."  I  think  we  all  believe,  for  that  matter,  that  every 
where  "folks  is  folks,"  that  when  we  know  a  people  well  enough, 
differences  disappear. 

Let   East  come  West,  and  West  go  East: 
There  is  room  for  both  at  the  wedding  feast. 


look  upon  the  Hudson  river  as  the  western  boundary 
of  the  habitable  globe.  Fortunately,  that  attitude  is 
even  now  changing  toward  a  broader  Americanism. 
There  is  none  of  us  who  need  not  be  reminded  that 
"  there  is  neither  East  nor  West,"  and  that  men  are 
not  citizens  of  Kansas  or  of  Manhattan  only,  but  cit 
izens  of  America,  and  after  that  citizens  of  the 
world.  Not  in  one  generation  alone  has  the  query 
risen,  "  Can  any  good  come  out  of  Nazareth?  " 

This  book  goes  from  me  to  the  people  of  Kansas. 
It  is  no  longer  my  property.  There  is  on  it  no  copy 
right,  f  I  shall  feel  fortunate  if  I  sell  enough  of 
these  copies  to  pay  my  printer,  and  he  is  a  very  good 
printer,  an  editor  and  my  friend  —  Mr.  W.  C.  Simons 
and  Mr.  J.  L.  Brady,  for  there  are  two  of  "him." 
They,  too,  have  made  this  collection  possible,  because 
they  believe  in  me  and  in  the  people  of  Kansas. 
These  are  your  poets  and  your  poems.  What  will 
ydu  do  with  them? 

WILLARD  WATTLES. 
Lawrence,  Kansas, 
October  18,  1914. 


t  Second  edition  copyrighted  by  A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co. 


XI 


SUNFLOWERS 


Dedication  to  Second  Edition 

Kansas,  queen  of  the  golden  prairies, 
Central  heart  of  the  glowing  West, 
Steadfast  love  that  never  varies, 
Mother  of  the  ample  breast, 

We,  thy  sons  and  daughters  raise  thee 
Glory  and  thanksgiving  song  — 

Not  on  our  lips  the  power  to  praise  thee ; 
To  deeds  alone  does  the  right  belong. 

Born  in  the  faith  our  fathers  cherished, 
Circled  in  girdling  walls  of  fire; 

One  by  one  our  mothers  perished, 
Lifting  thee  nearer  the  heart's  desire. 

Queen  and  mother,  now  renewing 
All  the  pledge  of  that  nobler  race, 

Strengthen  us  for  the  daily  doing 
Homely  things  with  a  cheerful  face. 


xn 


SUNFLOWERS 


Not  in  pride  of  the  wealth  you  gave  t*5, 
Not  in  boasting  of  easy  tongue; 

Only  love  and  labor  save  us, 
Set  us  high  in  the  stars  among. 

WiUard  Wattles 


Xlll 


SUNFLOWERS 


Preface  to  Second  Edition 


That  this  collection  of  Kansas  poems  is  entering 
its  second  edition  is  due  to  the  kindness  of  many 
Kansans,  not  the  last  of  whom  are  the  Kansas  edi 
tors.  To  W.  C.  Simons  and  to  William  Allen  White 
I  am  especially  indebted  for  unwavering  assistance. 

This  edition  contains  a  number  of  additions  and 
corrections.  Through  permission  of  The  Smart  Set 
I  use  Harry  Kemp's  poem,  The  Harvest  Hand.  Mr. 
C.  'L.  Edson's  poem,  Corn,  here  receives  its  first 
printing  in  completed  form.  Mr.  Edson's  contribu 
tions  have,  to  my  mind,  particular  historical  value  in 
their  local  color.  I  am  adding  other  poems  by  Rose 
Morgan,  Anne  Reece  Pugh,  and  Walt  Mason;  also 
four  poems  by  Dorothy  Statton,  a  poet  new  to  the 
Kansas  public  and  deserving  of  recognition.  The 
most  important  single  addition  is  Eugene  Ware's 
Washerwoman's  Song,  about  which  there  have  been 
many  inquiries  as  to  why  it  did  not  appear  in  the 
first  edition. 

The  interest  of  this  book  has  been  local ;  only  those 
who  know  our  state  intimately  can  know  what  is  in 
these  pages.  John  Burroughs  has  told  me  that  our 
straight  roads  depress  him;  "they  are  laid  out  like 
a  checker-board."  I  gave  him  my  Prairie  Wind  and 
he  said,  "  Perhaps  there  is  some  beauty  there,  after 
all."  The  lyric  delicacy  of  our  prairie  life  is  some- 


XJV 


SUNFLOWERS 


times  overwhelmed  in  the  epic  sweep  of  our  plains 
and  our  horizons ;  but  it  is  not  lost,  only  waiting  for 
the  wise  discoverer.  Those  who  have  lived  here  will 
know  .what  we  have  found. 

WILLARD  WATTLES. 
June  8,  1916. 


XV 


Kansas 

Not  for  what  she  hath  done  for  me, 

Though  it  be  great, 
For  what  she  is,  her  majesty, 

I  love  my  State. 

Thomas  Emmet  Dewey 


xvi 


SUNFLOWERS 


Surfeited  here  with  beauty,  and  the  sensuous-sweet 

perfume, 
Borne  in  from  a  thousand  gardens  and  orchards  of 

orange-bloom ; 
Awed    by    the    silent    mountains,    stunned    by    the 

breakers'  roar  — 
The  restless  ocean  pounding  and  tugging  away  at 

the  shore  — 
I  lie  on  the  warm  sand-beach  and  hear,  above  the 

cry  of  the  sea, 
The  voice  of  the  prairie  calling, 

Calling  me. 

Sweeter  to  me  than  the  salt  sea  spray,  the  fragrance 

of  summer  rains ; 
Nearer  my  heart  than  these  mighty  hills  are  the 

windswept  Kansas  plains; 
Dearer    the    sight    of    a    shy,    wild    rose,    by    the 

roadside's  dusty  way, 
Than  all  the  splendor  of  poppy-fields,  ablaze  in  the 

sun  of  May. 


SUNFLOWERS 


Gay  as  the  bold  poinsettia  is,  and  the  burden  of 

pepper  trees, 
The  sunflower,  tawny  and  gold  and  brown,  is  richer, 

to  me,  than  these. 
And  rising  ever  above  the  song  of  the  hoarse, 

insistent  sea, 
The  voice  of  the  prairie  calling, 

Calling  me. 

Kansas,     beloved     Mother,     today     in     an     alien 

land, 
Yours  is  the  name  I  have  idly  traced  with  a  bit  of 

wood  in  the  sand, 
The  name  that  flung  from  a  scornful  lip  will  make 

the  hot  blood  start ; 
The  name  that  is  graven,  hard  and  deep,  on  the  core 

of  my  loyal  heart 
O,  higher,  clearer  and  stronger  yet,  than  the  boom 

of  the  savage  sea, 
The  voice  of  the  prairie  calling, 

Calling  me. 

Esther  M.  Clark 


Kansas 

Let  other  countries  glory  in  their  Past, 
But  Kansas  glories  in  her  days  to  be, 
In  her  horizons  limitless  and  vast, 
Her  plains  that  storm  the  senses  like  the  sea; 
She  has  no  ruins  gray  that  men  revere — 
Her  Time  is  "Now,"  Her  Heritage  is  "Here." 

Harry  Kemp 


Morning  in  Kansas 


There  are  lands  beyond  the  ocean  which  are  gray 
beneath  their  years,  where  a  hundred  generations 
learned  to  sow  and  reap  and  spin;  where  the  sons 
of  Shem  and  Japhet  wet  the  furrow  with  their 
tears — and  the  noontide  is  departed,  and  the  night 
is  closing  in. 

Long  ago  the  shadows  lengthened  in  the  lands 
across  the  sea,  and  the  dusk  is  now  enshrouding 
regions  nearer  home,'  alas !  There  are  long  de 
serted  homesteads  in  this  country  of  the  free — but 
it's  morning  here  in  Kansas,  and  the  dew  is  on  the 
grass. 

It  is  morning  here  in  Kansas,  and  the  break 
fast  bell  is  rung!  We  are  not  yet  fairly  started 


SUNFLOWERS 


on  the  work  we  mean  to  do;  we  have  all  day  be 
fore  us,  for  the  morning  is  but  young,  and  there's 
hope  in  every  zephyr,  and  the  skies  are  bright  and 
blue. 

It  is  morning  here  in  Kansas,  and  the  dew  is 
on  the  sod;  as  the  builders  of  an  empire  it  is  ours 
to  do  our  best;  with  our  hands  at  work  in  Kan 
sas,  and  our  faith  and  trust  in  God,  we  shall  not 
be  counted  idle  when  the  sun  sinks  in  the  West. 

Walt  Mason 


Three  States 

Of  all  the  states,  but  three  will  live  in  story; 
Old   Massachusetts   with   her   Plymouth   Rock, 
And  old  Virginia  with  her  noble  stock, 
And  Sunny  Kansas  with  her  woes  and  glory; 
These  three  will  live  in  song  and  oratory, 
While   all   the  others,   with  their  idle   claims, 
Will  only  be  remembered  as  mere  names. 

Eugene  F.  Ware 


SUNFLOWERS 


Kansas  and  London 


crow 

I  sat  upon  a  hill — all  alone — long  ago,  .... 
But  I  never  felt  so  lonely  and  so  out  of  God's  way 
As  here,  where  I  brush  elbows  with  a  thousand 

every  day. 

Harry  Kemp 


Opportunity 


Master  of  human  destinies  am  II 

Fame,  love,  and  fortune  on  my  footsteps  wait 
Cities  and  fields  I  walk;  I  penetrate 

Deserts  and  seas  remote,  and  passing  by 
Hovel  and  mart  and  palace,  soon  or  late 
I  knock  unbidden  once  at  every  gate ! 

If  sleeping,  wake;  if  feasting,  rise  before 
I  turn  away.    It  is  the  hour  of  fate, 
And  they  who  follow  me  reach  every  state 

Mortals  desire,  and  conquer  every  foe 

Save  death ;  but  those  who  doubt  or  hesitate, 
Condemned  to  failure,  penury,  and  woe, 

Seek  me  in  vain  and  uselessly  implore; 
I  answer  not,  and  I  return  no  more. 

John  J.  IngaUs 


SUNFLOWERS 


Each  in  His  Own  Tongue 


A  fire-mist  and  a  planet, 

A  crystal  and  a  cell, 
A  jellyfish  and  a  saurian, 

And  caves  where  the  cavemen  dwell; 
Then  a  sense  of  law  and  beauty 

And  a  face  turned  from  the  clod  — 
Some  call  it  Evolution, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

A  haze  on  the  far  horizon, 

The  infinite,  tender  sky, 
The  ripe,  rich  tints  of  the  cornfields, 

And  the  wild  geese  sailing  high; 
And  all  over  upland  and  lowland, 

The  charm  of  the  goldenrod  — 
Some  of  us  call  it  Autumn, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

Like  tides  on  a  crescent  sea-beach, 

When  the  moon  is  new  and  thin, 
Into  our  hearts  high  yearnings 

Come  welling  and  surging  in: 
Come  from  the  mystic  ocean 

Whose  rim  no  foot  has  trod  — 
Some  of  us  call  it  Longing, 

And  others  call  it  God. 


SUNFLOWERS 


A  picket  frozen  on  duty, 

A  mother  starved  for  her  brood, 
Socrates  drinking  the  hemlock, 

And  Jesus  on  the  rood; 
And  millions  who,  humble  and  nameless, 

The  straight,  hard  pathway  plod  — 
Some  call  it  Consecration, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

William  Herbert  Carruth 


Kansas 


O,  I  have  walked  in  Kansas 
Through  many  a  harvest  field 
And  piled  the  sheaves  of  glory  there 
And  down  the  wild  rows  reeled: 

Each  sheaf  a  little  yellow  sun, 
A  heap  of  hot-rayed  gold; 
Each  binder  like  Creation's  hand 
To  mould  suns,  as  of  old. 

Straight  overhead  the  orb  of  noon 
Beat  down  with  brimstone  breath; 
The  desert  wind  from  south  and  west 
Was  blistering  flame  and  death. 


SUNFLOWERS 


Yet  it  was  gay  in  Kansas, 
A-fighting  that  strong  sun; 
And  I  and  many  a  fellow-tramp 
Defied  that  wind  and  won. 

And  we  felt  free  in  Kansas 
From  any  sort  of  fear, 
For  thirty  thousand  tramps  like  us 
There  harvest  every  year. 

She  stretches  arms  for  them  to  come, 

She  roars  for  helpers  then, 

And  so  it  is  in  Kansas 

That  tramps,  one  month,  are  men. 

We  sang  in  burning  Kansas 

The  songs  of  Sabbath-school, 

The  "  Day-Star  "  flashing  in  the  East, 

The  "  Vale  of  Eden  "  cool. 

We  sang  in  splendid  Kansas 
"  The  flag  that  set  us  free  "— 
That  march  of  fifty  thousand  men 
With  Sherman -to  the  sea. 

We  feasted  high  in  Kansas 
And  had  much  milk  and  meat. 
The  tables 'groaned  to  give  us  power 
Wherewith  to  save  the  wheat. 


Our  beds  were  sweet  alfalfa  hay 
Within  the  barn-loft  wide. 
The  loft-doors  opened  out  upon 
The  endless  wheat-field  tide. 

I  loved  to  watch  the  wind-mills  spin 
And  watch  that  big  moon  rise. 
I  dreamed  and  dreamed  with  lids  half-shut, 
The  moonlight  in  my  eyes. 

For  all  men  dream  in  Kansas, 
By  noonday  and  by  night, 
By  sunrise  yellow,  red  and  wild, 
And  moonrise  wild  and  white. 

The  wind  would  drive  the  glittering  clouds, 
The  cottonwoods  would  croon, 
And  past  the  sheaves  and  through  the  leaves 
Came  whispers  from  the  moon. 

Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay 


SUNFLOWERS 


When  the  Sunflowers  Bloom 


I've  been  off  on  a  journey;  I  jes'  got  home  today; 
I  traveled  east,  an'  north,  an'  south,  an'  every  other 

way; 

I  seen  a  heap  of  country,  an'  cities  on  the  boom, 
But  I  want  to  be  in  Kansas  when  the 
Sun*- 

Flowers 
Bloom. 

You  may  talk  about  yer  lilies,  yer  vi'lets  and  yer 

roses, 
Yer   asters,   an*  yer   jassymins,   an'   all   the  other 

posies ; 
I'll  allow  they  all   air  beauties  an'  full  'er   sweet 

perfume, 

But  there's  none  of  them  a  patchin'  to  the 
Sun- 
Flower's 
Bloom. 

Oh,  it's  nice  among  the  mount'ins,  but  I  sorter  felt 

shet  in ; 
T'ud  be  nice  upon  the  seashore  ef  it  wasn't  for  the 

din; 
While  the  prairies  air  so  quiet,  an'  there's  allers 

lots  o'  room, 


JO 


SUNFLOWERS 


Oh,  it's  nicer  still  in  Kansas  when  the 
Sun- 
Flowers 
Bloom. 

When   all  the   sky  above  is  jest   ez  blue  ez  blue 

kin  be, 
An'  the  prairies  air  a  wavin'  like  a  yaller  driftin' 

sea, 
Oh,  it's  there  my  soul  goes  sailin'  an'  my  heart  is 

on  the  boom 

In  the  golden  fields  of  Kansas  when  the 
Sun- 
Flowers 
Bloom. 

Albert  Bigelow  Paine 


We'll  Be  Going  on  Again 

We've   footed  it  so   far  today  across  the  pathless 

plain, 
And  down  the  hills,  across  the  vales,  and  up  the 

hills  again, 

And  through  a  forest  green  and  dark,  where  turtle 
doves  were  mourning  — 
So  we  are  glad  to  stay,  tonight, 
And  share  your  food  and  your  lamplight ; 
But  we'll  be  going  on  again  in  the  morning, 
We'll  be  going  on  —  in  the  morning. 


II 


SUNFLOWERS 


We've  watched  the  morning,  on  the  plain,  rise,  robed 

in  floating  gold, 

And  in  the  hills  we've  seen  the  twilight,  purple- 
mantled,  starry,  coid; 
And  in  the  forest  oft  at  night  we've  heard  the  skies 

a-storming  — 

And  we  are  glad  to  rest  our  heads 
Sometime,  somewhere,  upon  your  beds; 
But  we'll  be  going  on  again  in  the  morning, 
We'll  be  going  on  — in  the  morning. 

We've  seen  the  winter  cross  the  land,  its  veils  of 

white  a-trailing, 
We've  seen  the  pink  buds  all  awake  when  pearly 

clouds  were  sailing; 
We've  seen  the  wide  fields  parched  and  dead,  when 

glowed  the  August  noon, 
And  purple  grapes,  and  scarlet  leaves,  beneath  the 

harvest  moon  — 

We've  seen  them  many  times  before  — 
We  hope  t6  see  them  many  more; 
And  we'll  be  going  on  again  in  the  morning, 
We'll  be  going  on  —  in  the  morning. 

Dorothy  Station 


12 


SUNFLOWERS 


It  Will  Be  a  Kansas  Year 


O,  the  Lord's  come  back  to  Kansas  and  will  start 

the  brooklets  flowing, 
Put   new  life   in  the   people,  keep  the   vegetation 

growing. 
So  just  keep  the  hoe  a-shining,  put  your  muscles 

into  gear, 
For  the  Lord's  come  back  to  Kansas  and  'twill  be 

a  Kansas  year. 

Yes,  the  Lord's  come  back  to  Kansas,  to  give  music 

to  the  birds ; 
Sent  the  silver  dews  to  moisten  early  grazing  for 

the  herds; 
So  just  plant  and  keep  on  planting;   every  stalk 

will  bear  an  ear; 
For  the  Lord's  come  back  to  Kansas,  and  'twill  be 

a  Kansas  year. 

Yes,  the  Lord's  come  back  to  Kansas;   'twill   put 

blue  stem  in  the  sod; 
And    the    humming    bird    will    flutter    midst    the 

autumn's  goldenrod; 
So  get  out  the  scythe  and  whet  it,  haying  season's 

almost  here; 
For  the  Lord's  come  back  to  Kansas  and  'twill  be 

a  Kansas  year. 

/.  B.  Edson 


Joy  in  the  Corn  Belt 


The  seed  is  in  the  clover, 

The  ear  is  in  the  shuck, 
The  melons  shout,  "  Come,  out,  come  out, 

And  eat  this  garden-truck." 

The  yellow  ears  are  for  the  steers, 
The  white  are  for  the  swine ; 

Their  hair  and  hides  and  bacon  sides 
Are  all  for  me  and  mine. 

The  cider  mug  is  by  its  jug, 

The  sweet  potatoes  fry; 
And  ma  is  shovin'  in  the  oven 

Pumpkin  custard  pie ! 

C.  L.  Edson 


Walls  of  Corn 


Smiling  and  beautiful,  heaven's  dome, 
Bends  softly  over  our  prairie  home. 

But  the  wide,  wide  lands  that  stretched  away 
Before  my  eyes  in  the  days  of  May, 

The  rolling  prairies'-  billowy  swell, 
Breezy  upland  and  timbered  dell, 

Stately  mansion  and  hut  forlorn, 
All  are  hidden  by  walls  of  corn. 

All  wide  the  world  is  narrowed  down, 
To  the  walls  of  corn,  now  sere  and  brown. 

What  do  they  hold  —  these  walls  of  corn, 
Whose  banners  toss  on  the  breeze  of  morn? 

He  who  questions  may  soon  be  told; 

A  great  state's  wealth  these  walls  enfold. 

No  sentinels  guard  these  walls  of  corn, 
Never  is  sounded  the  warder's  horn. 

Yet  the  pillars  are  hung  with  gleaming  gold, 
Left  all  unbarred,  though  thieves  are  bold. 

Clothes  and  food  for  the  toiling  poor, 
Wealth  to  heap  at  the  rich  man's  door; 


SUNFLOWERS 


Meat  for  the  healthy  and  balm,  for  him 
Who  moans  and  tosses  in  chamber  dim ; 

Shoes  for  the  barefooted,  pearls  to  twine 
In  the  scented  tresses  of  ladies  fine; 

Things  of  use  for  the  lowly  cot, 

Where  (bless  the  corn!)  want  cometh  not; 

Luxuries  rare  for  the  mansion  grand, 
Gifts  of  a  rich  and  fertile  land  — 

All  these  things  and  so  many  more 
It  would  fill  a  book  to  name  them  o'er, 

Are  hid  and  held  in  these  walls  of  corn, 
Whose  banners  toss  in  the  breeze  of  morn. 

Open  the  atlas,  conned  by  rule, 

In  the  olden  days  of  the  district  school. 

Point  to  the  rich  and  bounteous  land, 
That  yields  such  fruit  to  the  toiler's  hand. 

"  Treeless  desert,"  they  called  it  then, 
Haunted  by  beasts,  forsaken  by  men. 

Little  they  knew  what  wealth  untold, 
Lay  hid  where  the  desolate  prairies  rolled. 

Who  would  have  dared,  with  brush  or  pen, 
As  this  land  is  now,  to  paint  it  then? 


16 


SUNFLOWERS 


And  how  would  the  wise  ones  have  laughed  dn 

scorn, 

Had  prophet  foretold  these  walls  of  corn, 
Whose  banners  toss  in  the  breeze  of  morn ! 

Ellen  P.  Allerton 


Ah!  Sunflower! 


Ah !  Sunflower,  weary  of  time, 

Who  cottntest  the  steps  of  the  sun, 
Seeking  after  that  sweet  golden  clime 

Where  the  traveler's  journey  is  done ; 
Where  the  youth  pined  away  with  desire, 

And  the  pale  virgin  shrouded  in  snow, 
Arise  from  their  graves,  and  aspire 

Where  my  sunflower  wishes  to  go ! 

William  Blake 


SUNFLOWERS 


Winds  of  Delphic  Kansas 

Half-west,  half-east;  half-north,  half-south; 

—  As  in  Grecian  Delphi  in  days  of  old, 

The  center  of  the  world  as  men  then  told  — 

The  winds  blow  ever  —  and  through  a  god's  mouth. 

O,  the  snow-footed,  ice-armored  winds, of  the  prairie, 

Rushing  out  mightily 
From  cosmic  caves  of  the  north, 
From  glacier  forces  of  earth  and  air, 

The  winter  winds  of  the  prairie ! 
They  drive  dark  clouds  from  morn  to  morn, 
They  shake  the  light  o'er  stubbles  of  corn, 
They  whistle  through  woods  of  leaves  all  shorn, 
With  never  a  hint  of  the  spring  to  be  born, 

The  flesh- freezing  winds  of  the  prairie! 

Half-north,  half-south;  half-east,  half-west; 
The  airs  pour  ever;  the  winds  never  rest: 

O,  the  sun-lifted,  cotton-soft  winds  of  the  prairie, 

Cheering  right  merrily 
From  tillage  lands  of  the  south, 
From  warmth  of  breeding  southern  seas, 

The  June-sweet  winds  of  the  prairie ! 
They  drive  silver  clouds  all  day  to  its  close, 
And  shake  glowing  light  on  young  corn  in  rows, 


18 


SUNFLOWERS 


They  rock  the  trees  till  the  small  birds  drowse, 
They  swirl  the  fragrance  of  wild-grape  and  rose, 
The  seminal  winds  of  the  prairie! 

Half-south,  half-north;  half-west,  half-east: 
A  people  intoxicate;  and  winds  do  not  cease; 

O,    the    free-state,    Puritan-spirited    winds    of   the 
prairie, 

Singing  right  heartily 
That  gods  were  but  folk  who  were  free, 
That  folk  who  are  free  are  as  gods, 

The  human-voiced  winds  of  the  prairie. 
They  call  Brown  of  bloody-blade  from  Osawatomie, 
They  smite  swift  the  shackles  —  the  slave  is  free ; 
To  all  the  world  they  say  in  their  humanity 
"  Come  here  and  build  a  home  loyal  to  me," 

The  primal-souled  winds  of  the  prairie! 

Half-east,  half-west;  half-south,  half-north; 

All  forces  here  meet,  but  the  free  alone  are  worth; 

O,  the  self-reliant,  right-seeking  winds  of  the  prairie, 
Blowing  out  lustily 

From  the  race-brood  of  New  England 

In  this  western  New  England. 
The  altruistic,  rainbow-future  winds  of  the  prairie ! 
They  strive  ever  after  the  ideal  —  Better!    Better! 
Till  today  they  sing  "  Melior !    Brook  no  fetter ! 


Of  freedom  the  spirit  seek  ye ;  not  the  letter ! 
Melior !    Melior !    Better !     Better !  " 

The  cloud-dispelling,  star-climbing  winds  of  the 


prairie 


So,  prophetic  in  zeal,  through  hot  winds  and  cold, 
—  As  in  Grecian  Delphi  in  days  of  old, 
The  center  of  the  world  as  men  then  told  — 
Half -west,  half-east;  half-north,  half -south  — 
The  spirit  speaks  ever  —  and  through  a  god's  mouth. 

Kate  Stephens 


Wind  in  the  Treetops 

Treetops,  and  wind  in  the 'treetops, 

And  a  cloud-dappled  bit  of  blue  sky 
With  a  bird  swift  across  it  flight  winging, 

Are  all  I  can  see,  as  I  lie 
In  my  narrow  white  bed  —  but  the  wonder, 

The  glory,  the  beauty  —  are  there, 
And  I  feel  like  a  bird  in  its  aerie, 

A  prince  of  the  kingdom  of  air. 

Treetops,  and  wind  in  the  treetops, 
And  moonshine,  so  mystic  and  pale, 

That  the  eye  of  some  star  far  above  it 
Peers  soft  through  a  gossamer  veil ; 


SUNFLOWERS 


And  far  down  the  shadowy  distance 

A  sleepy  bird  chirps  in  its  dream 
'Til  out  'neath  the  star-powdered  heavens 

Afloat  on  swift  pinions  I  seem. 

Out,  out  in  the  mist  and  the  moonshine, 

Out,  out  o'er  the  slumbering  world, 
On,  on  to  the  end  of  the  darkness 

Where  the  banners  of  dawn  are  unfurled; 
'Til  I  see,  gleaming  forth  from  night's  window 

One  great  red-gold  lamp  of  the  sky,  - 
While  along  the  gray  east,  serried  cloud  banks 

Wind-routed,  tumultuously  fly. 

"  Treetops,  and  wind  in  the  treetops !  " 

You  say  —  and  you  pity  me  so  — 
Pity  me  —  before  whom  such  a  pageant 

E'er  passes  so  grandly  and  slow. 
'Til  I  smile  in  my  pain,  and  forgetting 

The  poor  ailing  body's  control,    ' 
See  treetops,  and  wind  in  the  treetops 

And  myself  an  emancipate  soul ! 

Louisa  Cooke  Don-Carlos 


21 


SUNFLOWERS 


Le  Marais  Du  Cygne 


A  blush  as  of  roses 

Where  rose  never  grew ! 
Great  drops  on  the  bunch-grass, 

But  not  of  the  dew ! 
A  taint  in  the  sweet  air 

For  wild  bees  to  shun, 
A  stain  that  shall  never 

Bleach  out  in  the  sun! 

Back,  steed  of  the  prairies ! 

Sweet  song-bird,  fly  back  ! 
Wheel  hither,  bald  vulture. 

Gray  wolf,  call  thy  pack ! 
The  foul  human  vultures 

Have  feasted  and  fled; 
The  wolves  of  the  Border 

Have  crept  from  the  dead. 

In  the  homes  of  their  rearing, 

Yet  warm  with  their  lives, 
Ye  wait  the  dead  only, 

Poor  children  and  wives! 
Put  out  the  red  forge-fire, 

The  smith  shall  not  come; 
Unyoke  the  brown  oxen, 

The  plowman  lies  dumb. 


22 


SUNFLOWERS 


Wind  slow  from  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

O  dreary  death-train, 
With  pressed  lips  as  bloodless 

As  lips  of  the  slain! 
Kiss  down  the  young  eyelids, 

Smooth  down  the  gray  hairs: 
Let  tears  quench  the  curses 

That  burn  through  your  prayers. 

From  the  hearths  of  their  cabins, 

The  fields  of  their  corn, 
Unwarned  and  unweaponed, 

The  victims  were  torn  — 
By  the  whirlwind  of  murder 

Swooped  up  and  swept  on 
To  the  low,  reedy  fen-lands, 

The  Marsh  of  the  Swan. 

With  a  vain  plea  for  mercy 

No  stout  knee  was  crooked; 
In  the  mouths  of  their  rifles 

Right  manly  they  looked. 
How  pale  the  May  sunshine, 

Green  Marais  du  Cygne, 
When  the  death-smoke  blew  over 

Thy  lonely  ravine ! 

Strong  man  of  the  prairies, 
Mourn  bitter  and  wild ! 


SUNFLOWERS 


Wail,  desolate  woman ! 

Weep,  fatherless  child! 
But  the  grain  of  God  springs  up 

From  ashes  beneath, 
And  the  crown  of  His  harvest 

Is  life  out  of  death. 

Not  in  vain  on  the  dial 

The  shade  moves  along 
To  point  the  great  contrasts 

Of  right  and  of  wrong: 
Free  prairie  and  flood  — 

And  fields  of  ripe  food ; 
The  reeds  of  the  Swan's  Marsh 

Where  bloom  is  of  blood. 

On  the  lintels  of  Kansas 

That  blood  shall  not  dry; 
Henceforth  the  Bad  Angel 

Shall  harmless  go  by; 
Henceforth  to  the  sunset 

Unchecked  on  her  way, 
Shall  Liberty  follow  . 

The  march  of  the  day. 

John  G.  Whittiert 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  Prairie  Pioneers 


He  builded  a  house  of  sod  on  the  slope  of  a  prairie 
knoll ; 

He  builded  in  praise  of  God,  content  with  the  scanty 
dole. 

He  had  builded  a  nest  in  the  grass,  as  the  ground- 
squirrels  burrow  low ; 

And  hither  he  led  a  laughing  lass  in  the  days  of 

long  ago. 

He  was  a  lad  and  she  was  a  maid; 
Their  hearts  were  glad ;  they  were  unafraid 
Of  the  world  and  its  waiting  woe. 

The  prairie  wind  in  her  face  tumbled  her  tresses 

down, 
The  sensitive  rose,  in  its  grace,  "clung  to  her  cotton 

gown. 
The  prairie  dog  beat  a  retreat  and  watched  them 

mournful-eyed, 
And  the  buffalo-grass  beneath  her  feet  said,  "  Woe 

to  the  prairie  bride !  " 
He  was  a  husband  she  was  a  wife; 
Afoot  in  the  daisy  fields  of  life; 

They  would  not  be  denied. 

Who   did   the   law   ordain,   who   wrote   the   dread 
decree 


That   into  the   desert   plain   the   children   of   men 

should  flee? 

Into  a  treeless  land,  the  land  of  little  rain, 
Pressed  and  driven  by  penury's  hand,  shackled  with 

poverty's  chain; 

Youth  to  sicken  and  love  to  die, 
Beauty  blasted  and  hope  gone  dry, 
And  grief  in  a  maddened  brain. 

Ever  the  hot  wind  blew,  sapping  the  famished  corn ; 
The  night,  unblessed  by  dew,  fevered  the  breath  of 

morn. 

A  man  agape  at  the  skies  where  no  cloud  fleeces  go ; 
Weeping,  the  broken  woman  lies   in  the  dugout's 

furnace  glow. 

His  hope,  like  the  sod  corn,  curls  and  wilts ; 
She  writhes  on  a  bed  of  cotton  quilts 
In  a  mother's  nameless  woe. 

O,  wind,  you  are  hellish  hot;  death  is  the  song  you 

sing; 
The  eggs  in  the  quail's  nest  rot  under  her  tortured 

wing. 

Dust  in  a  choking  cloud  wavers  and  sifts  and  flies; 
Dust  is  the  dead  babe's  pauper  shroud;  on  her  sick 

breast  it  lies. 

The  sod  corn  crumbles  and  blows  away, 
Chaff  in  the  clouds  of  smoking  clay, 

Surging  against  the  skies; 


26 


, 


SUNFLOWERS 


He  builded  a  house  of  sod  on  the  slope  of  a  prairie 

knoll ; 
He  builded  in  praise  of  God,  content  with  the  scanty 

dole. 

He  had  builded  a  nest  in  the  grass,  as  the  ground- 
squirrels  burrow  low; 
And  hither  he  led  a  laughing  lass  in  the  days  of  long 

ago. 

He  was  a  lad  and  she  was  a  maid ; 
Their  hearts  were  glad ;  they  were  unafraid  , 
Of  the  world  and  its  waiting  woe. 

C.  L.  Edson 


27 


SUNFLOWERS 


Chewink 

Sing  me  another  solo,  sweet  — 

I  have  learnt  this  one  by  rote; 
The  endless  merry-go-round  repeat 

Of  the  tuneful,  tender,  teasing  note: 
"  Che-wink,  che-wink ! 

Che-wink,  che-wink !  " 
A  moment's  rest  for  the  tired  throat 
(Just  long  enough  for  a  heart  to  beat), 
And  at  it  again :    "  Che-wink,  che-wink." 

O  bird,  dear  bird,  with  the  outspread  wings 

And  little  to  chant  about !  — 
When  death  reaches  over  the  wreck  of  things 
To  stifle  the  soft,  delighted  shout : 
"  Che-wink,  che-wink ! 

Che-wink,  che-wink !  " 
And,  all  unruffled  by  dread  or  doubt, 
Your  musical  mite  of  a  soul  upsprings, 
Will  you  still  go  crying:    "  Che-wink,  che-wink?  " 

Little  I  know,  but  this  I  hold: 

If  the  rushing  stars  should  meet  — 
Their  crystal  spheres  into  chaos  rolled  — 
Let  only  this  one  pure  voice  entreat : 
"  Che-wink,  che-wink ! 
Che-wink  che-wink !  " 
Great  Love  would  answer  the  summons  sweet, 


28 


SUNFLOWERS 


And  a  universe  fresh  as  the  rose  unfold. 

So  at  it  again.    "  Che-wink,  che-wihk !  " 

Amanda  T.  Jones 


Spring  in  Kansas 


Make  glad,  make  glad, 

The  Lord  of  growth  has  come, 

The  sun  has  half  his  northward  journey  done, 

And  in  deep-buried  roots  moves  the  Spirit! 

Upon  the  dark-earthed  field 

Fires  of  last  year's  husks  the  farmer  kindles  — 

Sacrifices  to  the  Lord  of  growth ; 

Smoke  rises  to  the  bluer  heavens, 

While  hawk  and  solemn  crow  cut  with  long  wing  the 

sparkling  air, 

And  little  birds  do  sing  "  Rejoice ! 
Rejoice !  the  springing  life  is  here !  " 

For  the  sun,  .O  brothers,  shines  upon  our  landl 
And  winds,  O  sisters,  blow  over  all  our  land ! 
Mounting  sap  now  brightens  trunk  and  tree  and  vine, 
And  every  tip-most  twig  swells  out  its  Jeaf-buds : 

The  peach  puts  forth  her  bitter-tinted  p^nk, 
Red-bud  empurples  far  each  wooded  stretch. 
And,  by  the  magic  of  the  lord  of  spring, 


SUNFLOWERS 


Stand  orchards,  very  ghosts  of  winter  snows,  white- 
cloaked  in  blossom. 

And  wheat,  O  sisters,  greens  in  our  rolling  glebe, 
And  corn,  O  brothers,  springs  from  its  golden  seed ! 
For  sun-warmth  and  wind-strength  and  praise-God 

rain  are  abroad  in  our  land, 
Three  builders  of  worlds  with  the  Spirit  go  forth 

hand  in  hand. 

Make  glad,  make  glad. 
The  Lord  of  growth  has  come, 
The  sun  has  near  his  northward  journey  run, 
And  in  deep-buried  roots  moves  Life  ever-living! 

K ate  Stephens 


Shri  Krishna's  Flute 

"  The  notes  of  his  wondrous  flute  are  heard  in  all 
the  groves,  and  over  all  the  plains." — Avataras. 

Not  along  the  dusty  highways, 
But  in  green  and  leaf-walled  byways, 
Sometimes  in  the  early  dawning 
I  have  heard  his  silv'ry  flute. 
Or  when  evening's  purple's  falling, 
And  the  village  bullock's  calling; 
'Mid  the  noises  of  the  jungle 
Monkey's  cry  and  owl's  hoot. 


SUNFLOWERS 


Where  the  lotus  buds  are  sleeping 
In  the  depth  of  Gunga's  keeping. 
And  the  trunked  Ganesh's  shadow 
Looms  across  the  temple  door. 
Carved  with  gods  and  smoked  with  incense, 
E'er  the  morning's  mantrams  commence, 
And  the  people  bring  their  offerings, 
I  have  heard  it  once  —  before. 

Faint  and  clear  and  low  and  pleading, 
Full  of  laughter,  full  of  tears, 
Full  of  lust  of  woman's  beauty, 
Strength  of  days  and  length  of  years. 
In  it  whispers  all  the  brooding 
Of  the  nesting  birds  in  June, 
All  the  mystery  of  the  jungle 
Rustling  'neath  the  great  orbed  moon. 

Full  of  plaint  of  bearing  mother, 
Full  of  sigh  of  trembling  bride. 
Chants  in  incense  dimmed  temples 
Love  songs  'neath  the  night-skies  wide. 
In  it  thrills  the  cry  of  mourners 
'Round  the  ghats  at  waterside, 
And  the  talk  of  village  elders 
'Neath  the  palm  at  eventide. 

"  Naught  is  thee  or  me,"  it  whispers, 
"  A  U  M  —  from  form  set  free. 


Back  the  water-drops  go  slipping, 
Thankfully  into  the  sea." 
"  Naught  is  high  or  low,"  it  murmurs, 
"  Man  or  Deva,  bound  or  free. 
Each  but  strand  of  that  great  Cordon 
Stretching  through  eternity." 

Not  along  the  dusty  highways, 
But  in  green  and  leaf-walled  byways, 
Sometimes  have  I  glimpsed  Lord  Krishna 
While  the  listening  birds  sat  mute. 
With  his  eyes  like  stars  a-shining, 
Leafy  girdle  'round  him  twining; 
And  with  pouting  lips  of  scarlet 
Prest  against  his  wondrous  flute. 

Louisa  Cooke  Don-Carlos 


The  Prairie  Schooner 


Slow  was  the  weary,  toilsome  way 

Where  creaked  the  heavy-laden  wain  — 
Quaint  follower  of  the  speeding  day 
Across  the  plain. 

White  canvas  covers,  bulging,  fair, 

Enclosed  fond  hearts  athrob  with  joy; 
The  builders  of  an  empire  there 
Found  safe  convoy. 


3-2 


Along  its  course  child-voices  sweet 

Marked  all  the  strangeness  of  each  scene ; 
While  parents  sought  new  homes  to  greet 
With  vision  keen. 

No  luxury  or  ease  was  there 

To  lap  the  traveler  into  rest, 
But  staunch  it  bore  the  pioneer 
On  toward  the  West. 

Deserted  now,  its  ragged  sails 

Are  furled  —  the  port  has  long  been  won. 
Sport  of  the  boisterous,  hurrying  gales, 
Through  cloud  and  sun. 

Unused,  forlorn,  and  gray,  it  stands, 
A  faded  wreck  cast  far  ashore, 
The  Mayflower  of  the  prairie  lands, 
Its  journey  o'er. 

Charles  Moreau  Harger 


33 


SUNFLOWERS 


Good-bye  to  the  Cottonwood 

On  the  cottonwood  tree  rests  the  shadow  of  doom, 
The  useless  old  tree  with  its  feathery  bloom 
Blowing  widely  adrift  like  the  scattering  snow, 
Falling  mutely  in  heaps,  wind-swept  to  and  fro, 

The  hardy  old  tree, 

The  pioneer  tree, 
Through  years  that  are  gone 

It  waited  a  hand 

To  conquer  the  land, 
And  its  people  in  triumph  lead  on,  ever  on. 

When  the  tender  young  elm  and  the  maple  tree  gay, 
When  the  poplar  and  oak  withered  down  in  dismay 
At  the  hot  brazen  heavens  of  sweltering  June, 
And  the  breath  of  July  like  the  desert  simoon. 

Then  alkali  soil, 

Then  dry  barren  soil, 
It  felt  the  firm  grasp 

Of  roots  that  were  strong 

Seeking  waters  among 
The  low  hidden  deeps  that  the  cool  fountains  clasp. 

On  the  young  settler's  "homestead"  first  planted 

with  grain 

From  the  hard  skies  it  courted  the  life-giving  rain. 
O'er  the  first  little  dugout  its  soft  shadows  crept, 


34 


SUNFLOWERS 


To  its  murmuring  music  the  wee  babies  slept, 

And  there  to  its  shade, 

Its  sheltering  shade, 
Fond  lovers  would  come, 

In  strange  prairie  lands 

It  reached  out  warm  hands 
To  the  hearts  that  were  aching  and  longing  for  home. 

'Gainst  the  drouth,  and  the  cyclone,  the  plague  and 

the  heat 

The  old  cottonwood  tree  planted  firmly  its  feet. 
But  at  last  it  must  bow.    Are  my  eyes  getting  dim? 
'Tis  but  sentiment  surely,  a  woman's  soft  whim 
That  would  keep  to  the  last 
This  old  tree  of  the  past, 
As  the  memories  we  keep 

Of  the  men  who  stood  firm 
In  the  early  day  storm, 

The  strong  "  builders  of  empire  "  whose  labors  we 
reap. 

Margaret  HillMcCarter 


35 


SUNFLOWERS 


Where  "A  Lovely  Time  Was  Had' 


Bill   Hucks,  the  item-chaser  on  the   Wilier  Creek 

Gaysette, 
Was  the  likeliestest  hustler  that  old  man  McCray 

could  get. 

As  a  writer-up  of  runaways,  an'  funerals,  an'  shows, 
Bill  never  had  an  equal,  nor  a  rival,  goodness  knows. 
So  we  sent  him  up  a  t'nvite  to  a  doin's  Susie  give, 
And  he  writ  a  piece  about  it  that  was  fine,  as  sure's 

you  live. 

But  all  I  kin  remember  is,  "  We  hardly  need  to  add 
The  guests  agreed  at  leaving  that  a  lovely  time  was 

had." 

O,  yes  —  come  now  to  think  of  it  —  her  maw  cooked 

up  some  cake, 
And  pies  and  floatin'  island  truck  that  Susie  helped 

to  make, 
And  they  was  pickle-lilly,  too,  and  beets  and  jell 

and  jam, 
And  slaw,  and  chicken-salad,  and  some  sanwiches 

of  ham. 
And  them  Bill  said  'was  "  viands,"  which,  in  writin'- 

«p  he  owned 
"  Made  a  tempting  feast  of  good  things,  and  the 

table  fairly  groaned. 
And  when  the  wee  sma'  hours  were  come,  we  hardly 

need  to  add, 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  guests  agreed  at  leaving  that  a  lovely  time 
was  had." 

Old  Bill  has  gone  from  Wilier  Crick;  the  Gaysette 

is  no  more; 
For  Old  McCray  has  stole  away  to  find  the  Golden 

Shore.  :  •£•; r'J. 

And  Susie  has  been  married  off  for  lo!  these  many 

years, 
And  some  of  them  that  come  that  night  have  quit 

this  vale  of  tears ; 
But  maw  has  in  her  scrap-book — 'long  with  little 

Laury's  death, 
And  the  pome  about  the  baby  and  the  accident  to 

Seth  — 
The  piece  about  the  doin's,  and  today  it  makes  us 

glad. 
To  read  at  Susie's  party  "that  a  lovely  time  was 

had." 

William  Allen  White 


37 


Pawpaws  Ripe 

The  sunny  plains  of  Kansas  dozed 

In  soft  October  haze; 
The  wayside  leaves  and  grass  disclosed 

Scarce  signs  of  autumn  days. 
The  cornstalks  bent  their  ears  of  gold, 

To  list  the  cricket's  din ; 
And  fields  of  sprouting  wheat  foretold 

The  farmer's  laden  bin. 

Many  a  mover's  caravan 

Stretched  westward  far  away, 
As  they  had  moved,  since  spring  began, 

To  where  the  homesteads  lay. 
Their  wagon-sheets  were  snowy  white, 

Their  cattle  sleek  and  stout; 
Their  children's  merry  faces  bright 

With  blooming  health  shone  out. 

But  ho.!  what  apparition  queer 

Is  this  that  looms  in  sight? 
Has  Rip  Van  Winkle  wandered  here 

Just  from  his  waking  plight? 
Has  one  of  the  Lost  Tribes  come  back 

With  remnant  of  his  band, 
And  eastward  turned  once  more  his  track, 

To  seek  the  Promised  Land? 


SUNFLOWERS 


Beneath  yon  shade  I'll  sit  me  there, 

Upon  that  bank  of  grass, 
And  inventory,  as  it  were,    • 

These  nomads,  as  they  pass. 
There  may  be  reason  wise  and  strong, 

Unknown  to  us,  why  they, 
Of  all  the  steady,  moving  throng, 

Are  on  the  backward  way. 

A  wagon  of  past  ages,  built 

On  model  lost  to  art; 
A  dirty,  ragged,  faded  quilt 

Supplied  a  cover's  part. 
Wheels  of  four  sizes,  tireless  now, 

With  many  a  missing  spoke; 
A  three-legged  mule,  a  one-horned  cow, 

Tugged  slowly  in  the  yoke. 

A  man  of  five-and-forty  years, 

With  beard  of  grizzled  brown ; 
A  brimless  hat  sat  on  h:s  ears, 

His  hair  strayed  through  the  crown; 
His  pants  of  dingy  butternut, 

His  coat  of  tarnished  blue, 
His  feet  with  no  incumbrance  but 

Mismated  boot  and  shoe. 

Six  hungry  curs  of  low  degree 
Sneaked  at  their  master's  heels, 


39 


SUNFLOWERS 


Or,  underneath  the  axle-tree, 

Kept  measure  with  the  wheels. 

Packed  in  the  feeding-box  behind, 
A  time-worn  jug  is  spied, 

Whose  corn-cob  stopper  hints  the  kind 
Of  nourishment  inside. 

Nine  boys  and  girls  with  rheumy  eyes, 

Stowed  in  with  beds  and  tins, 
Were  all  so  nearly  of  a  size 

They  might  have  well  been  twins. 
The  mother,  as  a  penance  sore 

For  loss  of  youth  and  hope, 
Seemed  to  have  vowed,  long  years  before 

To  fast  from  comb  and  soap. 

"  Halloo,  my  friend ;  a  brood  like  that 

Should  head  the  other  way; 
The  land  is  broad  and  free,  and  fat  — 

Go  take  it  while  you  may." 
Raising  his  glazed  and  dirty  sleeve, 

He  gave  his  mouth  a  wipe, 
And  answered,  with  a  sighing  heave, 

"  Stranger,  pawpaws  is  ripe ! 

"  Don't  tell  me  of  your  corn  and  wheat  — 

What  do  I  care  for  sich? 
Don't  say  your  schools  is  hard  to  beat, 

And  Kansas  soil  is  rich. 


40 


SUNFLOWERS 


Stranger,  a  year's  been  lost  by  me, 

Searchin'  your  Kansas  siles, 
And  not  a  pawpaw  did  I  see, 

For  miles,  and  miles,  and  miles! 

"  Missouri's  good  enough  for  me ; 

The  bottom  timber's  wide ; 
The  best  of  livin'  there  is  free, 

And  spread  on  every  side. 
In  course,  the  health  ain't  good  for  some, 

But  we're  not  of  that  stripe, 
Hey !   Bet  and  Tobe !  We're  gwien  home ! 

Git  up !    Pawpaws  is  ripe !  " 

He  cracked  his  whip,  and  off  they  went, 

The  mule,  and  cow,  and  dogs. 
I  watched  them  till  they  all  were  blent 

With  distant  haze  and  fogs; 
And  as  the  blue  smoke  heavenward  curled 

Up  from  his  corncob  pipe, 
He  dreamed  not  of  that  better  world, 

For  here  pawpaws  were  ripe! 

Sol  Miller 


SUNFLOWERS 


Kansas 


From  the  surge  of  the  western  ocean  and  the  roaring 

of  the  sea, 
From  the  Land  of  the  Orange  Blossom,  thy  daughter 

cried  to  thee, 
"  Kansas,  beloved  Mother ; "  so  I  with  a  heart  as 

sore  . 

Turn  from  the  wooded  hillside  and  vast  Atlantic's 

shore 
To  the  wind-swept  Kansas  prairies  and  golden  seas 

of  grain, 
With  as  desperate  a  longing  and  hands  that  stretch 

as  vain. 

Not  I  with   the   crowded   palette  of  genius-given 

art 
Crystallize    into    perfection    the    yearning    of    my 

heart ; 
Her's  is  the  sun-kissed  rapture,  her's  is  the  gift 

divine, 
Only  the  blundering  phrases  of  awkwardness  are 

mine ; 
And  yet  from  the  hills  of  longing  thru  severing 

leagues  between 
I  cry  with  the  bitter  aching  of  loneliness  as  keen. 


*  Dedicated    to    Esther    M.    Clark,    author    of    "  The    Call    of 
Kansas." 


SUNFLOWERS 


Manhattan's  walls  reecho  with  a  million  clamoring 

cries, 
The  stars  grow  wan  above  her  in  the  glory  of  her 

eyes, 
The  sea  falls  down  before  her  like  a  lover  at  her 

knees, 

And  rich  is  she  in  raiment  of  his  purple  argosies  — 
A  queen  upon  a  dais  at  the  gateway  of  the  world, 
She  is  not  half  so  lovely  as  the  Prairie,  dewdrop 

pearled. 

The  elms  of  Boston  murmur,  with  ghostly  memories, 

And  haunting  echoes  of  the  past  speak  still  in  cul 
tured  ease; 

.  But  at  her  heart  a  grave-yard  has   festered  with 
its  dead, 

A  white  skull  glistens  underneath  the  garlands  of 
her  head ; 

Across  the  Kansas  prairies,  with  brown  and  dusty 
feet, 

The  wind-blown  sweetheart  of  the  Sun  has  gone 
her  lord  to  greet. 

Not  in  the  crowded  cities  of  money-maddened  men, 
Not  in  the  shaded  cloister  where  Learning  trims 

her  pen, 
But  out  on  the  Kansas  prairies,  in  the  purity  of  the 

Sun, 
There   are  the  great  thoughts  builded*  visions  of 

empires  .begun ; 


43 


Here  on  the  wooded  hillside  I  sicken  in  heart  and 

brain, 
But  some  day,  beloved  Mother,  I'm  coming  home 

again. 

Willard  Wattles 


Carrie  Nation 


A  poor,  bewildered,  half-crazed  crone, 
She  died,  forgotten  and  alone; 
And  some  there  were  who  stopped  to  scoff 
When  the  good  old  dame  was  taken  off, 
While  the  busy  world  went  wheeling  on, 
Scarce  knowing  even  she  was  gone. 

Of  course,  she  may  have  done  some  good, 
But  then,  most  any  woman  could 
Who  had  the  muscle  and  a  hatchet, 
With  Irish  wit  as  keen  to  match  it; 
Yet  smashing  windows  so  erratic 
Soon  proved  her  just  a  plain  fanatic. 

A  sort  of  Jezebel  crusader, 
Like  Don  Quixote,  nothing  stayed  her  — 
No  wonder  people  shied  eggs  at  her, 
She  seemed  to  like  to  watch  'em  splatter, 
And  stood  like  wild  things  when  at  bay, 
So  sort  of  fearless,  old  and  gray. 


44 


And  then  to  die  so,  after  all, 

Insane  and  in  a  hospital; 

Good  God,  suppose  she  had  been  sane, 

And  we  who  had  the  rotten  brain; 

I'd  hate  to  stand  on  Judgment  Day 

Beside  that  woman  old  and  gray. 

I'd  hate  to  face  those  flashing  eyes 
That  scanned  a  state's  hypocrisies, 
And  woke  a  commonwealth  to  shame 
Wifh  crashing  axe  and  words  of  flame, 
Until  men  dare  to  carry  out 
The  laws  they  made  and  lied  about. 

Willard  Wattles 


John  Brown 


States  are  not  great 
Except  as  men  may  make  them ; 
Men  are  not  great  except  they  do  and  dare. 

But  States,  like  men, 
Have  destinies  that  take  them  — 
That  bear  them  on,  not  knowing  why  or  where. 

The  WHY  repels 
The  philosophic  searcher  — 
The  WHY  and  WHERE  all  questionings  defy, 


45 


SUNFLOWERS 


Until  we  find, 

Far  back  in  youthful  nurture, 
Prophetic  facts  that  constitute  the  WHY. 

All  merit  comes 
From  braving  the  unequal; 
All  glory  comes  from  daring  to  begin. 

Fame  loves  the  State 
That,  reckless  of  the  sequel, 
Fights  long  and  well,  whether  it  lose  or  win. 

Than  in  our  State 
No  illustration  apter 
Is  seen  or  found  of  faith  and  hope  and  will. 

Take  up  her  story ; 
Every  leaf  and  chapter 
Contains  a  record  that  conveys  a  thrill. 

And  there  is  one 

Whose  faith,  whose  fight,  whose  failing, 
Fame  shall  placard  upon  the  walls  of  time. 

He  dared  begin  — 
Despite  the  unvailing,- 
He  dared  begin,  when  failure  was  a  crime. 

When  over  Africa 
Some  future  cycle 
Shall  sweep  the  lake-gemmed  upland  with  its  surge ; 


SUNFLOWERS 


When,  as  with  trumpet 
Of  Archangel  Michael, 
Culture  shall  bid  a  colored  race  emerge; 

When  busy  cities 
There,  in  constellations, 
Shall  gleam  with  spires  and  palaces  and  domes, 

With  marts  wherein 
Is  heard  the  noise  of  nations ; 
With  summer  groves  surrounding  stately  homes  - 

There,  future  orators 
To  cultured  freemen 
Shall  tell  of  valor,  and  recount  with  praise 

Stories  of  Kansas, 
And  of  Lacedaemon  — 
Cradles  of  freedom  then  of  ancient  days. 

From  boulevards 
O'erlooking  both  Nyanzas, 
The  statured  bronze  shall  glitter  in  the  sun, 
With  rugged  lettering, 
"  JOHN  BROWN  OF  KANSAS : 
He  dared  begin, 

He  lost, 
But,  losing,  won." 

Eugene  F.  Ware 


47 


SUNFLOWERS 


John  Brown 

John  Brown  —  that's  all;  a  serious-purposed  man, 
Hard-handed,  tender-hearted ;  God's  great  plan 
Through  his  gnarled,  knotty  nature  pulsing  ran. 

"  Fanatic !  "  hissed  the  mob,  with  loud  acclaim : 
They,  unremembered ;  he,  close-clasped  by  fame, 
While  fades  away  the  gallows'  dreadful  shame. 

Each  cause  its  Christ,  its  sacrifice  to  might ! 
Scorn  soon  is  done,  and  Freedom's  piercing  light 
Dispels  the  mists  'round  Calvary's  awful  height ! 

W.  H.  Simpson 


A  Tribute  to  John  Brown 


Against  this  crime  of  crimes  he  fought  and  fell ; 
He  freed  a  race  and  found  a  prison-cell; 
In  mid-air  hung  upon  the  gibbet's  tree, 
But  lived  and  died,  thank  God,  to  make  men  free. 

And  dusky  men  the  ages  down  will  tell. 
For  what  he  fought,  and  how  he  bravely  fell ; 
And  dim  the  jewels  in  each  earthly  crown, 
Beside  the  luster  of  thy  name,  John  Brown. 

/.  G.  Waters 


48 


SUNFLOWERS 


John  Brown 

Had  he  been  made  of  such  poor  day  as  we, 

Who,  when  we  feel  a  little  fire  aglow 

'Gainst  wrong  within  us,  dare  not  let  it  grow, 
But  crouch  and  hide  it,  lest  the  scorner  see 
And  sneer,  yet  bask  our  self-complacency 

In  that  faint  warmth  —  had  he  been  fashioned 
so, 

The  nation  ne'er  had  come  to  that  birth-throe 
That  gave  the  world  a  new  humanity. 
He  was  no  vain  professor  of  the  word  — 

His  life  a  mockery  of  the  creed  —  he  made 
No  discount  on  the  Golden  Rule,  but  heard 

Above  the  Senate's  brawls  and  din  of  trade 
Ever  the  clank  of  chains,  until  he  stirred 

The  nation's  heart  on  that  immortal  raid. 

William  Herbert  Carruth 


49 


In  Idol-Smashing  Land 


From  boulevards  o'erlooking  both  Nyanzas 

The  shaft  of  bronze  shall  glitter  in  the  sun 

With  rugged  lettering,  "  John  Brown  of  Kansas: 
He  dared  begin,  he  lost,  but  losing  won!" 

Eugene  F.  Ware 

Over  there  in  Kansas  they  have  torn  their  idols  down, 
They  are  standing  up  and  jumping  on  the  grave  of 

Old  John  Brown; 
They  say  he  was  a  murderer,  a  cut-throat  and  a 

"  red," 
He  started  Kansas  bleeding,  and  no  more  it  should 

be  "  bled  "  — 

For  markers  and  for  monuments  and  cash-consum 
ing  things, 
To  mark  the  bloody  border  where  the  raider  had  his 

flings. 
The  state  has  put  the  money  up  to  save  Brown's 

cabin  shack  — 

His  home  at  Osawatomie,  surrounded  by  a  park  — 
So  when  his  soul,  that's  marching  on,  shall  come  a- 

marching  back, 

'Twill  have  a  place  to  huddle  in  and  hover  after  dark. 
"  John  Brown  of  Osawatomie,  he  made  our  soil  so 

free," 
This  poem  in  the  school  books  was  the  stuff  we  used 

to  see; 


But  now  they  've  built  a  bonfire  underneath  the  soul 

of  John, 
So  hot  he  couldn't  light  there,  but  must  keep  marchin' 

on. 

For  when  the  legislature  passed  the  John  Brown 
cabin  bill, 

The  opposition  kicked  and  said  he  was  a  bad  old  pill ; 

They  voted  not  to  honor  thus  the  early  Kansas  saint, 

And  painted  John  Brown's  body  just  as  black  as  they 
could  paint. 

The  "  Brown  of  Osawatomie  "  the  muses  sing  about, 

They  said  was  Mr.  O.  C.  Brown,  who  laid  the  town- 
site  out ; 

The  old  John  Brown  who  loafed  there  was  a  horse- 
thief  and  a  bum, 

They'd  never  vote  to  honor  him,  they  said,  till  king 
dom  come. 

"Old  John  Brown  was  an  anarchist  of  the  assassin 

breed, 
He  brought  no  wealth  to  Kansas,  and  he  only  made 

her  bleed ; 
His  only  work  in  Kansas  was  for  lawlessness  and 

crime, 
He  was  the  Booth,  the  Guiteau  and  the  Czolgosz  of 

his  time. 

He  is  the  only  lurid  blot  upon  our  Kansas  fame, 
And  I,  for  one,  could  never  vote  to  keep  alive  his 

name." 


SUNFLOWERS 


They  blackened  thus  the  name  of  Brown,  the  Kan 
sas  demigod, 

Who  with  the  blood  of  freedom  dewed  the  glisten 
ing  prairie  sod. 

Insurgent  Kansas  would  insurge  against  insurgents 
dead ;  «  > 

Did  Old  John  Brown  turn  over  in  his  tomb  at  what 
they  said? 

His  "  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave  "  we  used 
to  sing ; 

It  doubtless  then  is  mouldering  on  the  other  side  this 
spring. 

We  sang  "  The  Stars  of  heaven  are  a-looking  kindly 
down," 

But  the  stars  upon  the  Kansas  stage  are  blistering 
John  Brown. 

Another  instance  of  the  way  the  cards  of  fate  will 
stack, 

His  "  soul  it  went  a-marching  on,"  and  now  it  can't 
come  back. 

No  name  is  safe  in  Kansas  where  the  idol-smasher 
knocks. 

They  've  proved  that  Sockless  Jerry  really  wore  the 
best  of  socks ; 

No  reputation  over  there  is  ever  made  to  last  — - 

Why,  even  William  Allen  White  has  heard  the  thun 
der  blast; 

That  "  What's-the-matter  "  article  in  '96  he  wrote, 


SUNFLOWERS 


It  made  his  reputation  as  a  world-wide  man  of  note, 
And  now  the  Kansas  rebels  who  give  every  man  a 

fall, 

Declare  it  wasn't  written  by  Bill  Allen  White  at  all. 
He  took  it  almost  bodily,  the  smashing  ones  declare, 
From  a  letter  that  was  written  by  the  Kansas  poe'., 

Ware. 

'Twas  thus  they  dealt  with  William,  and  we  '1!  hear 

'fore  very  long, 

That  Ware,  himself  a  faker,  cribbed  his  "  Washer 
woman's  Song." 
For  they're  on  the  move  in  Kansas,  and  the  idol  of 

today 
Is  tomorrow  smashed  in  fragments  'mid  its  broken 

feet  of  clay. 
"  It  is  morning  here  in  Kansas,"  as  Walt  Mason 

aptly  said, 
It  is  always  dawn  in  Kansas  and  the  morning  sky 

is  red. 
There  they  make  no  creed  their  jailer,  never  in  their 

slow  decay 
From  the  tomb  of  the  old  prophets  steal  the  funeral 

lamps  away 
To  light  up  the  martyr  fagots  'round  the  Prophets  of 

Today. 
But  the  prophets  of  the  present,  when  the  funeral 

lamps  are  out, 
Take  the  dust  of  the  old  prophets  and  scatter  it 

about, 


53 


SUNFLOWERS 


And  the  soil  is  thus  kept  fertile  so  that  new  ideas 

can  spring, 

For  over  there  in  Kansas  still  the  intellect  is  king. 

C.  L.  Edson 


A  Wheat-Field  Fantasy 


As  I  sat  on  a  Kansas  hilltop, 
While,  far  away  from  my  feet, 

Rippled  the  lights  and  shadows 
Dancing  across  acres  of  wheat, 

The  sound  of  the  grain  as  it  murmured 
Wrought  a  wonder  with  me  — 

It  turned  from  the  voice  of  the  Prairie 
Into  the  roar  of  the  sea. 

And  I  saw,  not  the  running  wind-waves, 
But  an  ocean  that  washed  below 

In  ridging  and  crumbling  breakers 
And  ceaseless  motion  and  flow; 

Then,  as  a  valley  is  flooded 

With  opaline  mists  at  morn 
Which  momently  flow  asunder 

And  leave  green  spaces  of  corn  — 


54 


SUNFLOWERS 


There  burst  the  strangest  vision 

Up  from  that  ancient  sea. — 
'Twas  not  the  pearl-white  Venus 

Anadyomene,       ' 

'Twas  the  bobbing  ears  of  horses 
And  a  head  with  a  great  hat  crowned 

And  a  binder  that  burst  upon  me 
Sudden,  as  from  the  ground  — 

And  the  waves  gave  place  to  the  wheatlands 

Myriad-touched  with  gold  — 
Then  my  soul  felt  century-weary 

And  untold  aeons  old ; 

For  a  rock-ledge  sloped  beside  me 
And  the  lime-traced  shells  it  bore 

Had  plied  that  ancient  ocean 
Each  with  a  sentient  oar. 

Harry  Kemp 


The  Promise  of  Bread 


Out  on  the   frozen  uplands,  underneath  the  snow 

and  sleet, 
In  the  bosom  of  the  plowland  sleeps  the  Promise 

of  the  Wheat; 
With  the  ice  for  head-and-footstone,  and  a  snowy 

shroud  outspread  f 


55 


In  the  frost-locked  tomb  of  winter  sleeps  the  Miracle 

of  Bread. 
With  its  hundred  thousand  reapers  and  its  hundred 

thousand  men, 
And  the  click  of  guard  and  sickle  and  the  flails  that 

turn  again, 
And  drover's  shout,  and  snap  of  whips  and  creak  of 

horses'  tugs, 
And  a  thin  red  line  o'  gingham  girls  that  carry  water 

jugs; 
And  yellow  stalks  and  dagger  beards  that  stab  thro' 

cotton  clothes, 
And   farmer  boys   a-shocking   wheat   in   long   and 

crooked  rows, 
And   dust-veiled  men   on   mountain   stacks,   whose 

pitchforks  flash  and  gleam ; 
And  threshing  engines  shrieking  songs  in  syllables 

of  steam, 

And  elevators  painted  red  that  lift  their  giant  arms 
And  beckon  to  the  Harvest  God  above  the  brooding 

farms, 
And  loaded  trains  that  hasten  forth,  a  hungry  world 

to  fill  — 
All  sleeping  just  beneath  the  snow,  out  yonder  on  the 

hill. 

C.  L.  Edson 


A  Wilier  Crick  Incident 


Long  ago  before  the  Choppers  an'  the  drouth  of  sev 
enty-four, 

Long  before  we  talked  of  boomin',  long  before  the 
first  Grange  store. 

Long  before  they  was  a  city  on  the  banks  of  Wilier 
Crick, 

Come  a  woman  doin'  washin'  an'  a  little  boy  named 
Dick: 

Kinder  weakly  like  an'  sick: 
Wasn't  even  common  quick ; 

An'  the  folks  said  that  his  daddy  used  to  be  a  loonytic. 

He  was  undersized  an'  ugly  an'  was  tongue-tied  in     i 

his  talk ; 
He  was  awkward  an'  near-sighted  an'  he  couldn't 

tnore'n  walk; 
An'  the  other  boys  all  teased  him ;  no  one  knowed 

the  reason  why, 
'Cept  to  hear  his  mother  pet  him ;  "  There,  ma's 

angul,  there,  don't  cry." 

When  they  was  nobody  nigh 
She  would  set  by  him  an'  sigh ; 
An'  she'd  comb  his  hair  an'  kiss  him :  "  Ma's  boy 

'nil  be  well,  bye'm  bye." 

But    instead  of  gettin'  stronger  Dick  grew  thinner 
every  year ; 


57 


SUNFLOWERS 


An'  although  his  legs  got  longer,  his  pore  brain 

ketched  in  the  gear. 
But  he  always  loved  the  crick  so,  an'  'twas  there  'at 

he  Vd  play; 
Killin'  lucky  bugs  an'  buildin'  dams  'at  always  broke 

away. 

But  his  mother  used  to  pray : 
"  God  make  Dickie  strong,  some  day !  " 
God  Vd  make  him  strong  an'  happy,  her  "  pore 

angul "  she  Vd  say. 

They  was  not  a  long  procession  when  he  died,  an* 

all  I  mind 
Was  a  little  green  farm  wagon  with  two  churs  set 

in  behind. 

But  it  held  a  lonely  mother  sobbin'  wildly  for  her  own 
An'  the  sorrow  et  in  deeper  for  she  knew  she  grieved 
alone. 

'Mid  the  sunflowers  lightly  blown, 
Where  the  sticker  weeds  are  sown, 
No  one  knows  the  hopes  an'  heart-aches  buried  'neath 
that  rough-cut  stone. 

William  Allen  White 


SUNFLOWERS 


A  Border  of  Memory 


We  had  moved  up  to  Palymra, 

In  the  year  of  sixty-one, 
From  our  claim  on  the  Neosho 

When  our  harvesting  was  done. 

Then  my  husband  had  enlisted, 

All  his  heart  divinely  stirred, 
And  I  lived  but  for  the  children, 

And  to  hear  the  scanty  word 

That  came  slowly  back  to  Kansas 

From  his  precious  company, 
As  the  crimson  tide  of  battle 

Bore  it  onward  to  the  sea. 

Twelve  months  passed,  and  the  next  springtime 
Came  with  clouds  of  denser  gloom 

And  the  passion  on  the  prairies 
Broke  into  more  deadly  bloom ; 

And  the  summer  brought  the  terror 
Close  upon  the  shuddering  town, 

Of  the  bloody-handed  Quantrell 
On  the  country  sweeping  down. 

Day  by  day,  the  awful  menace 

Weighted  every  lingering  hour, 


59 


SUNFLOWERS 


And  we  slept  in  trouble  dreaming 
Of  the  fierce  marauder's  power. 

Night  by  night,  I  made  me  ready 
For  whatever  blow  might  fall, 

With  the  children  all  about  me, 
Trained  to  waken  at  my  call. 

And  I  gathered'  strength  and  courage 
From  the  spirit  of  my  son, 

Such  a  bright,  intrepid  stripling  — 
Ne'er  a  danger  he  would  shun. 

He  had  played  so  much  at  soldier, 
Marching  ever  in  the  van, 

He  had  taken  on  the  feeling 
And  the  valor  of  a  man. 

So  I  listened,  sad  and  shrinking, 
When  upon  a  weary  day 

He  came  in  all  flushed  and  eager 
With  the  words  he  had  to  say : 

"  All  the  men  are  clean  done  over. 
Watching  so  by  day  and  night, 

And  we  boys  are  going  on  duty  — 
We're  just  spoiling  for  a  fight. 

"  But  they  say  there  is  no  danger  — 
Quantrell's  clear  across  the  line, 


60 


SUNFLOWERS 


And  we've  but  to  give  the  signal 
If  we  see  the  slightest  sign. 

"  Jed  and  I  —  for  we're  the  oldest  — 
Take  our  stand  at  Curran's  farm. 

You  don't  care  much,  do  you,  mother? 
We'll  be  safe  enough  from  harm." 

So  I  stifled  my  foreboding, 

Kissed  him  twice  and  let  him  go 

Out  into  the  somber  twilight 

In  the  pride  that  mothers  know. 

Such  a  night!  all  torn  and  tortured 
By  a  host  of  nameless  fears, 

I  was  certain  every  minute 

There  would  fall  upon  my  ears 

The  abrupt,  determined  ringing 

Of  the  heavy  college  bell 
Which  in  preconcerted  clamor 

Any  peril  was  to  tell. 

And  I  seemed  to  hear  the  echoes 
Of  the  warfare  far  away : 

All  its  horror,  doubly  dreadful, 
Pressed  upon  me  where  I  lay. 

But  at  length  I  slumbered  briefly, 
And  the  dawn  in  sweet  surprise 


% 

Filtered  through  my  eastern  window, 
Falling  gently  on  my  eyes. 

Then  deploring  all  my  weakness, 
Since  no  evil  chance  had  come, 

I  rejoiced  in  the  glad  morning 

That  would  bring  my  darling  home; 

So  to  give  him  instant  welcome 
I  flung  wide  the  outer  door  — 

And  I  found  him  'neath  the  trellis 
Lying  straight  upon  the  floor. 

He  but  slept,  I  thought  in  wonder : 
It  was  death,  instead  of  sleep ! 

Shot  down  by  a  passing  ruffian 
He  had  still  the  power  to  creep 

Toward  the  town  so  gladly  guarded 
In  the  strength  he  loved  to  try, 

And  but  reached  the  dear  home-shelter, 
Spent  with  effort,  there  to  die. 

That  same  day  devoted  Lawrence 

Was  destroyed  by  Quantrell's  band; 

I  was  only  one  of  many 

Smitten  by  a  murderous  hand, 

And  I  tell  my  story  calmly, 

Now  so  many  years  have  passed, 


SUNFLOWERS 


But  whoever  gives  such  life-blood 
Feels  the  anguish  to  the  last. 

Yet  the  sorrow  has  its  glory, 

Shining  steady  like  a  star  — 
All  the  world  had  need  of  Kansas, 

Consecrated  by  the  war. 

And  the  God  who  guides  our  battles 
Shaped  the  purpose  of  the  State; 

We  have  bought  her  for  His  uses 
And  the  price  has  made  us  great. 

Florence  L.  Snow 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  Defense  of  Lawrence 

All  night  upon  the  guarded  hill, 

Until  the  stars  were  low, 
Wrapped  round  as  with  Jehovah's  will 

We  waited  for  the  foe ; 
All  night  the  silent  sentinels 

Moved  by  like  gliding  ghosts; 
All  night  the  fancied  warning  bells 

Held  all  men  to  their  poMs. 

We  heard  the  sleeping  prairies'  breath, 

The  forest's  human  moans, 
The  hungry  gnashing  of  the  teeth 

Of  wolves  on  bleaching  bones; 
We  marked  the  roar  of  rushing  fires, 

The  neigh  of  frightened  steeds, 
The  voices  as  of  far-off  lyres 

Among  the  river  reeds. 

We  were  but  thirty-nine  who  lay 

Beside  our  rifles  then; 
We  were  but  thirty-nine,  and  they 

Were  twenty  hundred  men. 
Our  lean  limbs  shook  and  reeled  about, 

Our  feet  were  gashed  and  bare, 
And  all  the  breezes  shredded  out 

Our  garments  in  the  air. 


SUNFLOWERS 


Sick,  sick  of  all  the  woes  which  spring 

Where  falls  the  Southron's  rod, 
Our  very  souls  had  learned  to  cling 

To  freedom  as  to  God; 
And  so  we  never  thought  of  fear 

In  all  those  stormy  hours, 
For  every  mother's  son  stood  near 

The  awful,  unseen  powers. 

And  twenty  hundred  men  had  met 

And  sworn  an  oath  of  hell, 
That  ere  the  morrow's  sun  might  set, 

Our  smoking  homes  should  tell 
A  tale  of  ruin  and  of  wrath 

And  damning  hate  in  store, 
To  bar  the  freeman's  western  path 

Against  him  evermore. 

And  when  three  hundred  of  the  foe 

Rode  up  in  scorn  and  pride, 
Whoso  had  watched  us  then  might  know 

That  God  was  on  our  side, 
For  all  at  once  a  mighty  thrill 

Of  grandeur  through  us  swept, 
And  strong  and  swiftly  down  the  hill 

Like  Gideons  we  leapt. 

All,  all  throughout  that  Sabbath  day 
A  wall  of  fire  we  stood, 


And  held  the  baffled  foe  at  bay, 

And  streaked  the  ground  with  blood. 

And  when  the  sun  was  very  low 

They  wheeled  their  stricken  flanks, 
And  passed  wearily  and  slow 
Beyond  the  river  banks. 

Beneath  the  everlasting  stars 

We  bended  childlike  knees, 
And  thanked  God  for  the  shining  scars 

Of  His  large  victories ; 
And  some,  who  lingered,  said  they  heard 

Such  wondrous  music  pass 
As  though  a  seraph's  voice  had  stirred 
The  pulses  of  the  grass. 

Richard  Realf 


66 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  Choice 


They  hunted  the  thundering,  flying  herds  over  the 

range  all  day; 
At  evening  they  drove  them  through  a  gate  and 

closed  it  and  rode  away. 
At  dawn  they  came  with  branding-irons,  and  they 

made  the  place  a  hell, 
Curving  queer  snake  lariats  in  the  dust  of  the  high 

corral. 
Terror-eyed,  the  horses  shied,  and  when  the  day  was 

done, 
With  streaming  mane  to  the  open  plain  they  dashed 

away  —  save  one. 

All  night  long  in  her  narrow  cage,  a  white  mare 
fretted  and  foamed, 

And  shrilly  called  to  her  vanished  mates  on  the  shad 
owed  range  they  roamed. 

The  pride  of  the  herd,  she  was  wise  and  strong, 
glossy,  supple  and  fleet, 

Never  before  had  there  been  such  eyes,  such  ears, 
such  dainty  feet. 

Through  the  wooden  bars  she  watched  the  stars,  as 
they  burned  the  whole  night  through, 

Then  faded  away.  Through  the  morning  gray  she 
saw  them  come  —  and  knew  — 


They  caught  her  again  with  their  leaping  ropes,  and 

blinded  her  gleaming  eyes ; 
With  bands  of  leather  as  strong  as  steel  they  bound 

her  head  and  thighs; 
They  ripped  her  hide  from  shoulder  to  flank  with 

heels  of  constant  fire, 
And  her  tongue  grew  dark  with  blood  and  foam,  and 

dust,  'neath  the  jagged  wire; 
On  the  distant  side  of  the  high  divide,  her  mates 

roamed  free  again, 
Must  she  submit  to  an  iron  bit,  a  pair  of  spurs,  and 

Pain? 

With  a  mad  disdain  she  gathered  up  for  a  last  and 

mighty  spring, 
And  left  her  rider  beside  the  trail,  a  crumpled,  broken 

thing,    ... 
They  brought  her  to  bay  at  the  close  of  day,  on  the 

brink  of  a  steep  coulee ; 
She  looked  around,  then  plunged  down  —  down  — , 

and  that  night  she  was  —  free. 

Dorothy  Station 


68 


Funston 

Never  any  style  about  him,  not  imposing  on  parade ; 
Couldn't  make  him  look  heroic  with  no  end  of  golden 

braid. 
Figure  sort  o'  stout  and  dumpy,  hair  an'  whiskers 

kind  o'  red; 
But  he's  always  movin'  forward  when  there's  trouble 

on  ahead. 
Five  foot  five  o'  nerve  an'  darin',  eyes  pale  blue  an' 

steely  bright, 
Not  afraid  of  men  or  devils  —  that  is  Funston  in  a 

fight. 

Fighter  since  he  learned  to  toddle,  soldier  since  he 
got  his  growth; 

Knows  the  Spaniard  and  the  savage  —  for  he's 
fought  and  licked  'em  both. 

Not  much  figure  in  the  ballroom,  not  much  hand  at 
breakin'  hearts, 

Rotten  ringer  for  Apollo,  but  right  there  when  some 
thing  starts. 

Just  a  bunch  of  brain  and  muscle,  but  you  always 
feel,  somehow, 

That  he'll  get  what  he  goes  after  when  he  mixes 
in  a  row. 

Weyler  found  out  all  about  him,  set  a  price  upon 
his  head ; 


69 


SUNFLOWERS 


Aguinaldo's  crafty  warriors  filled  him  nearly  full  o' 

lead. 
Yellow  men  and  yellow  fever  tried  to  cut  off  his 

career, 
But  since  first  he  hit  the  war-trail   it  has   never 

slipped  a  gear. 
And  the  heart  of  all  the  nation  gives  a  patriotic 

throb 
At  the  news  that  Kansas  Funston  has  again  gone  on 

his  job. 

James  J.  Montague 


Kansas:  Where  we've  torn  the  shackles 

From  the  farmer's  leg; 
Kansas :  Where  the  hen  that  cackles, 

Always  lays  an  egg ; 
Where  the  cows  are  fairly  achin' 
To  go  on  record  breakin', 
And  the  hogs  are  raising  bacon 
By  the  keg ! 

Walt  Mason 


SUNFLOWERS 


My  Sage-Brush  Girl 


Under  a  cross  in  a  rainless  land  my  Sage-brush  Girl 

is  sleeping, 
Her  beautiful  eyes  shine  out  no  more;  her  cheeks 

have  shed  their  bloom. 
The  cactus  pierces  her  dreamless  heart  and  I  have 

ceased  from  weeping. 

My  eyes  are  dry  as  the  stunted  sage  that  parches 
o'er  her  tomb. 

The  years  have  withered  my  flesh  like  grass,  and 

filled  my  heart  with  knowing; 
I,  who  was  desert  born  and  reared,  have  won  to 

the  garden  lands, 
Where  the  earth  is  robed  in  a  rug  of  green  and 

the  barley  blooms  are  blowing, 
And  the  dewdrops  blaze  where  the  stalks  of  maize 
hold  up  their  heavenly  hands. 

Deep  in  the  dust  of  a  desert  waste  my  Sage-brush 

Girl  reposes; 
Her  beautiful  eyes  shine  out  no  more;  her  lips  have 

bloomed  and  died ; 
A  gypsum  bed  in  the  desert  dead  has  won  her  cheeks' 

red  roses; 

And  the  day  of  our  dream  is  a  sinking  sun  dipped 
under  the  Great  Divide. 


SUNFLOWERS 


I  know  who  wielded  the  flaming  sword  that  drove 

my  tribe  before  me 
Into  the  dusty  desert  wide,  where  all  the  flowers 

are  dead; 
Know  why  we  met  in  a  rainless  land  when  the  dream 

of  dreams  came  o'er  me ; 

We  were  the  disinherited  kin  of  the  lords  of  meat 
and  bread. 

We  were  the  poor  outside  the  door  of  the  Garden 

of  Singing  Water; 
The  poor  who  scurry  like  hunted  things  to  the  arid 

wastes  to  hide. 
So  I  was  born  to  the  desert  sands  and  she  was  the 

desert's  daughter  — 

But  I  have  won  to  the  garden  lands,  while  she  in 
the  desert  died. 

Those  yearning  days  were  a  drama  dear  that  the  drop 

of  the  curtain  closes. 
Her  beautiful  eyes  shine  out  no  more,  her  lips  have 

ceased  to  glow. 
A  gypsum  bed  in  the  desert  dead  has  won  her  cheeks' 

red  roses, 

But  I  have  seen  from  a  hillside  green  the  black 
hawk  drifting  slow. 

C.  L.  Edson 


SUNFLOWERS 


May  on  Oread 

"Oh,  to  be  in  England 
Now  that  April's  there." 

So  plained  the  Poet  from  a  land  of  fire, 
Forgetful  of  the  gaudy  melon-bloom, 
Heart-hungry  for  his  English  daffodils 
And  for  the  elm  tree's  tiny  crinkled  green. 
—  He  did  not  know  the  land  of  my  desire, 
The  wild  bees  on  the  lilac's  purple  plume, 
The  sun-transfigured  glory  of  the  hills, 
And  May  on  Oread,  glad  and  sweet  and  clean. 

Willard  Wattles 


The  Man  Behind  the  Gun 

There  are  many  to  sing  of  the  noble  deeds  of  Kan 
sas'  favorite  sons  — 

The  men  who  stood  in  the  early  days  so  manfully 
by  their  guns, 

Who  shed  their  blood  at  the  Nation's  call  for  the 
martyr-state's  release, 

And  led  her  out  of  the  depths  of  war  and  into  the 
ways  of  peace  — 

I  honor  them  all ;  but  I  honor,  too,  the  Infinite  Wis 
dom's  plan 


73 


Of  putting  a  man  behind  the  gun,  and  a  woman 
behind  the  man ! 

The  men  of  the  days  of  Old  John  Brown  —  Lord 

love  them,  every  one ! 
Each  is  a  hero  in  Kansas'  eyes,  and  each  is  a  favorite 

son. 
But  I  venture  to  say  that  you'd  find  if  you  got  right 

down  to  the  truth  of  things 
They  were  mostly  held  to  their  duty's  post  by  a  couple 

of  apron  strings ! 
For  who  could  waver,  or  who  could   fail  in  that 

struggle  in  Freedom's  name 
When   woman's  courage  and   woman's   faith   were 

backing  him  in  the  game? 

Our  dear  fore-mothers !  who  lived  and  loved  in  the 

days  when  the  State  was  young, 
(And  many  have  gone  to  their  last  long  rest,  un- 

honored,  unknown,  unsung) 
For  Woman  rose  to  the  needs  of  the  hour  when  the 

dear-bought  peace  was  won, 
And  backed  up  the  man  at  the  plough  as  well  as  she'd 

backed  lip  the  man  at  the  gun  ! 
He  gave  his  strength  for  the  land's  increase,  his 

voice  to  the  new  State's  good, 
But  back  of  his  every  word  and  deed  some  valiant 

woman  stood. 


74 


SUNFLOWERS 


There  are  men  at  the  front  in  our  State  today,  and 

back  of  each  one  stands 
Some  dauntless  woman  with  loving  heart  and  ready 

and  willing  hands. 
I  do  not  ask  for  her  Equal  Rights,  nor  a  voice  at 

your  polls  as  yet, 
(For  Heaven  knows  I  am  anything  but  a  rampant 

suffragette ! ) 
But  give  her  a  place  in  your  Halls  of  Fame,  along 

with  your  honored  ones ; 
Let  Kansas'  favorite  daughters  rank  as  high  as  her 

favorite  sons. 
I  pledge  you  loyally,  heart  and  hand,  as   only  a 

Kansan  can 
A  toast: 

To   the  Man   who   is   at   the   front  —  and  the 
Woman  behind  the  Man ! 

Esther  M.  Clark 


75 


SUNFLOWERS 


My  Dear 


If  I  hadn't  had  you,  my  dear, 

My  Dear, 

In  the  years  that  we've  been  together, 
With  your  happy  tongue  and  your  jest  and  song, 

No  matter  how  gray  the  weather; 
If  I  hadn't  had  you  when  my  hope  was  low, 

To  comfort  and  tease  and  love  me, 
I'd  have  seen  no  green  in  the  grass  below, 

No  blue  in  the  sky  above  me. 
And  the  world  had  been  empty  and  sad  and  drear, 

If  I  hadn't  had  you,  my  dear, 
My  Dear. 

If  I  hadn't  had  you,  my  dear, 

My  Dear, 

With  the  glamour  of  youth  about  you, 
When  the  day's  work  drags  and  my  courage  flags, 

Why,  what  should  I  do  without  you  ? 
If  I  didn't  have  you  when  the  day  is  long, 
And  the  long,  long  night  comes  after ; 
If  I  didn't  have  you  when  the  world  goes  wrong, 

To  set  it  right  with  laughter, 
There'd  be  small  need  of  my  tarrying  here, 
If  I  didn't  have  you,  my  dear, 
My  Dear. 

Esther  M.  Clark 


76 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  Hands  That  Cling 


The  hands  that  cling,  and  will  not  let  you  go 

Your  sweet,  untroubled  way ; 
The  hands  that  cling,  because  they  love  you  so, 

And  bid  you  stay; 
Sometimes  that  press  upon  your  eyes  to  hide 

From  you  the  blessed  Vision  of  your  King ; 
Sometimes  that  stay  your  lips  lest  you  should  chide 
The  hands  that  cling. 

Such  weak,  frail  hands  for  helping!    Yet  how  near 

Their  duty  lies,  forgot! 
It  is  their  very  weakness  holds  you,  dear, 

As  strength  could  not. 
The  hands  that  would  their  last  crust  give,  not  share, 

And  every  treasure  to  your  feet  would  bring ; 
The  hands  that  should  be  strong  to  lift  and  bear, 
Yet  only  cling. 

The  hands  that  cling,  yet  will  not  be  denied 

Some  service  for  love's  sake, 
And  in  its  doing  are  as  glorified ; 

The  hands  that  take 
No  weight  from  your  sad  cross.    Oh,  lighter  far 

It  were  but  for  the  burdens  that  they  Sring ! 
God  only  knows  what  hind'ring  things  they  are  — 
The  hands  that  cling. 


77 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  hands  that  cling  today  and  hold  you  fast 

Because  they  love  you  so, 
I  know,  my  sweet,  must  loose  their  hold  at  last, 

And  let  you  go. 

Then,  bruised  and  bleeding,  lifted  pleading  toward 
The  Heaven  that  bends  above  them,  pitying, 
Oh,  take  them,  hold  them  fast  in  Thine,  Christ  — 

Lord  — 
The  hands  that  cling ! 

Esther  M.  Clark 


The  Mother 


Dear  Lord,  there  is  so  much  to  do  in  one  brief,  busy 

day: 
The  little  clothes  to  wash  and  iron,  and  mend  and 

put  away; 
The  littered  toys  to  gather  up,  the  little  beds  to 

make ; 
And  little  griefs  to  soothe  away  from  little  hearts 

that  ache. 
The  little  bodies  to  be  kept,  for  Thy  sake,  clean  and 

sweet, 
As  temples  for  the  dwelling  of  the  Christly  spirit 

meet. 
And  Mary  Mother  one  time  knew  the  blessedness 

of  this: 
The  little  feet  to  wash  at  night,  the  little  lips  to 

kiss. 


SUNFLOWERS 


Forgive  me,  Lord,  if  that  I  seem  neglectful  of  Thy 

work. 

It  is  not  that  my  heart  is  hard,  it  is  not  that  I  shirk. 
But  that  my  heart  and  hands  are  full  with  these, 

my  little  ones, 
My  little  daughters,  fair  and  sweet,  my  sturdy  little 

sons. 
Once  I   rejoiced  in  serving  Thee,  and  only  Thee 

alway ; 
And  now  sometimes  I  am  so  tired  I  cannot  even 

pray. 
But  I  draw  near  at  night  to  Him  whose  mother  knew 

the  bliss 

Of  tender,  little  feet  to  wash,  and  little  lips  to  kiss. 

Esther  M.  Clark 


April  on  Half  Moon  Mountain 

Seed  time  and  weed  time  and  cattle  out  to  grass, 
Women- folk  a-settin'  hens  and  plantin'  garden  sass. 
Gee,   I'm  tired  of  pickled   pork   and  home  baked 

beans  — 

Mother,  pass  the  sassafras  and  sour  dock  greens. 
Peach  bloom  and  mint  perfume  and  me  a-diggin'  bait, 
I  ought  to  be  a-plowin'  but  the  fish  won't  wait. 

C.  L.  Edson 


79 


Meadow  Lark  and  Prairie  Wind 


An  airy  flutter  of  slender,  brown  wings, 
Arid  hark !  is  it  joy  or  sorrow  that  sings 
In  the  one  swelling  note, 

That  trembles  and  thrills  through  the   long-lifted 
throat? 

A  rush  o'er  the  prairies,  a  sorrowful  cry, 
And  the  quivering  grasses  bow  down  with  a  sigh, 
Stirred  deep  by  emotion 

That  the  wind  sings  and  cries  o'er  the  wide  grassy 
ocean. 

A  thrill  of  the  heart,  a  tremble  of  grasses, 

And  wind-sound  and  bird-song  a  melody  passes. 

We  puzzle  long,  but  we  may  not  know 

If  wind  or  lark  first  sang  this  song, 

With  its  burden  of  exquisite  woe. 

'Anne  Reece  Pugh 


Clover  and  Sky 

O  blest  is  he  whose  sorrow 

Hath  lasted  but  a  night! 
Thrice  blest  he  whose  tomorrow 

Dawns  ever  fair  and  bright ! 
Yet  who,  the  wide  world  over, 

Could  choose  to  sit  and  sigh? 
With  underneath,  the  clover, 

And  overhead,  the  sky. 

Then  make  no  friends  with  trouble, 

And  have  no  peace  with  gloom; 
For  surely  Joy  is  double 

When  all  the  Earth's  a-bloom ! 
Look  up !   There  bends  above  you 

The  tender,  shelt'ring  sky. 
Look  down!    And  there,  to  love  you, 

The  clover,  sweet  and  shy. 

Last  night  the  wind  fell  sobbing 

Against  my  window  pane, 
And  like  my  heart's  dull  throbbing 

There  beat  the  mournful  rain. 
But  now  the  storm  is  over 

There's  none  so  blithe  as  I, 
With  underneath,  the  clover, 

And  overhead,  the  sky. 

Esther  M.  Clark 


81 


SUNFLOWERS 


A  Ridge  of  Corn 

With  heart  grown  weary  of  the  heat, 

And  hungry  for  the  breath 
Of  field  and  farm,  with  eager  feet 

I  trod  the  pavement  dry  as  death 
Through  city  streets  where  vice  is  born  — 
And  sudden,  lo !  a  ridge  of  corn. 

Above  the  dingy  roof  it  stood, 

A  dome  of  tossing,  tangled  spears, 

Dark,  cool  and  sweet  as  any  wood, 
Its  silken  gleam  and  plumed  ears 

Laughed  on  me  through  the  haze  of  morn, 

The  tranquil  presence  of  the  corn. 

Upon  the  salt  wind  from  the  sea, 
Borne  westward  swift  as  dreams 

Of  boyhood  are,  I  seemed  to  be 

Once  more  a  part  of  sounds  and  gleams 

Thrown  on  me  by  the  winds  of  morn 

Amid  the  rustling  rows  of  corn. 

I  bared  my  head,  and  on  me  fell 

The  old  wild  wizardy  again 
Of  leaf  and  sky,  the  moving  spell 

Of  boyhood's  easy  joy  or  pain, 
When  pumpkin  trump  was  Siegfried's  horn 
Echoing  down  the  walls  of  corn. 


82 


SUNFLOWERS 


I  saw  the  field  (as  trackless  then 

As  wood  to  Daniel  Boone) 
Wherein  we  hunted  wolves  and  men, 

And  ranged  and  twanged  the  green  bassoon. 
Not  blither  Robin  Hood's  merry  horn 
Than  pumpkin  vine  amid  the  corn. 

In  central  deeps  the  melons  lay, 
Slow  swelling  in  the  August  sun. 
I  traced  again  the  narrow  way,( 

And  joined  again  the  stealthy  run. 
The  jack-o'-lantern  race  was  born 
Within  the  shadows  of  the  corn. 

O  wide,  west  wilderness  of  leaves ! 

O  playmates  far  away!    O'er  thee 
The  slow  wind  like  a  mourner  grieves, 

And  stirs  the  plumed  ears  like  a  sea. 
Would  we  could  sound  again  the  horn 
In  vast  sweet  presence  of  the  corn ! 

Hamlin  Garland 


SUNFLOWERS 


Plowing  Corn  in  Kansas 


They're  plowing  corn  in  Kansas  upon  the  old  home 
farm, 

The  slender  shoots  are  up  a  foot,  the  morning  sun 
is  warm, 

The  dew  is  fading  from  the  grass,  I  see  the  yellow 
breast 

Of  Father  Meadow-lark  come  home  to  that  low- 
hidden  nest; 

He's  had  his  morning  whistle  while  the  meadow- 
lands  were  dark, 

And  he's  brought  a  squirming  breakfast  back  to 
Mrs.  Meadow-lark. 


So  hurry  up  them  horses,. boys,  and  watch  old  Jim 

and  Kate; 
Hop  down  and  leave  the  water- jug  beside  the  open 

gate. 
I've  got  my  red  bandanner  on  and  opened  up  my 

shirt, 
And  the  cultivator-shovels  are  a-gouging  through 

the  dirt. 
It's  half  a  mile  before  we  turn  and  take  another 

row, 
For  it's  plowing-time  in  Kansas  and  the  morning 

sun  is  low. 


SUNFLOWERS 


Hi,  Tommy,  there's  a  gopher.    Can't  you  hit  him 

with  a  clod? 
Get  a  hard  one,  that's  the  ticket,  or  a  sun-caked 

lump  of  sod. 
I  heard  another  chipper  over  yonder  —  Gosh,  I'm 

hot, 
And  old  Kate  has  nipped  her  breakfast  over  half 

a  city  lot. 
But   you   can't   be   minding  horses   and   a-chasing 

gophers,  too, 
And  the  boss  won't  go  plumb  busted  'cause  old  Katie 

had  a  chew. 

Say,  you're  crowding  pretty  close  there;  can't  you 
hold  'em  in  a  spell? 

You  must  think  a  horse's  sneezing  suits  my  shirt- 
tail  pretty  well. 

Never  knowed  a  mare  like  that  'un,  when  she  creeps 
up  close  behind 

She  is  sure  to  swaller  something  and  to  snort  herself 
plumb  blind; 

Blamed  if  I'd  a  rode  so  near  you,  if  I  didn't  think 
that  you 

Knowed  enough  to  keep  them  horses  back  the  way 
you  ought  to  do. 

That  rabbit's  mighty  impident  a-browsin'  round  so 

brash, 
Just  reach  me  that  'ere  black-snake  and  I'll  g-ive  his 

legs  a  lash; 


And  that  crow  will  lose  his  tail-piece  if  he  gets  so 

near  the  wheel ; 
Serve  him  right,  the  greedy  beggar  —  worms  must 

make  a  messy  meal. 
Don't  see  why  the  prairie  critters  act  so  sort  of 

confident  — 
Thar !   I  said  ye'd  git  in  trouble  —  wisht  I  had  some 

liniment. 

I  think  I  see  the  gate-post,  Tom,  and  there's  the 

water- jug. 
I'll  beat  ye  there.     Oh,  drat  the  luck,  old  Pete  has 

dropped  a  tug. 
Look  out,  you're  tearin'  up  the  corn;  that  ain't  the 

way  to  do, 

I'd  give  you  walking-papers  if  I  was  hirin'  you. 
You've  drunk  up  half  a  gallon  —  but  I  guess  there 

ain't  no  harm ; 
We'll  both  drive  back  to  fetch  some  more.     I  feel 

uncommon  warm. 


They're  plowing  corn  in  Kansas,  the  morning  sun 
is  high, 

You'll  hear  a  cow-bell  ringing  through  the  silence 
by  and  by; 

And  then  an  apron  waving  nearly  half  a  mile  away, 

It's  dinner  time,  I  think  there'll  be  some  rhubarb- 
pie  today. 


86 


But  I'm  in  Massachusetts,  and  we've  had  a  tardy 

spring, 
And  'twas  only  just  this  morning  that  I  heard  a 

robin  sing. 

WUlard  Wattles 


Bouncing-Bet* 


When  that  I  see  thee  by  the  dusty  road, 
Or  where  some  kindly  householder  has  spared 
The  sprawling  matted  growth  that  thou  hast  dared 
To  trail  along  the  skirts  of  his  abode, 
When  that  I  see  thee  thus,  chance-sprung,  wind- 
sowed, 

A  wildling  waif  for  whom  no  one  has  cared, 
My  eyes  do  fill,  to  think  that  thou  hast  fared 
As  other  prophets  to  whom  much  is  owed. 
For  when  the  winged  scourge  swept  o'er  our  land, 
Leaving  all  black,  laying  all  green  things  low, 
Thy  pale  sweet  blossoms  scatheless  it  passed  by  — 
Through  thee  God  let  our  fathers  understand  — 
Unloved  and  useless,  thine  it  was  to  show 
The  bow  of  promise  in  thy  nether  sky. 

Rose  Morgan 

*  In  meraoriam;  Kansas,   1874. 


SUNFLOWERS 


Sunflowers  in  the  Corn 


There's  a   certain   day  in  summer  that  I  always 

recognize, 

Though  I'm  far  away  from  prairie  land  and  sun, 
By  the  pulling  at  my  heart-strings  and  the  aching  in 

my  eyes, 

And  I  know  that  back  in  Kansas,  harvest's  done. 
The  mellow  sun  is  gleaming  on  the  stacks  of  ripened 

wheat, 

The  stubble-field  is  empty  and  forlorn ; 
With  a  hoe  across  my  shoulder  and  bare-footed  in 

the  heat, 
I  am  off  to  cut  the  sunflowers  in  the  corn. 

Qh,  what  mystery  of  magic  down  the  green  and 

gracious  aisles, 

Lures  me  on  and  on  forever  to  the  end ; 
The  flapping  corn  is  whispering  while  summer  bends 

and  smiles ; 
The    warm   wind   scampers,    shouting,    "  Follow, 

friend." 
He  is  all  about  me  tugging,  with  his  shoulder  pressed 

to  mine, 
"  Come  and  catch  me,  don't  you  feel  my  circling 

arm? 

Oh,  there  never  was  a  farmer  boy  with  comrade  such 
as  thine; 


88 


SUNFLOWERS 


See,  I  flush  thy  cheek  with  kisses,   what's  the 
harm?"  , 

The  corn  is  waving  o'er  me  and  the  swelling  ears 

are  sweet 

Where  the  silver  floss  is  pushing  from  the  white. 
What  a  wealth  of  scarlet  mallow  bloom  is  crimsoning 

my  feet; 

There's  a  turtle  —  watch  him  scramble  out  of  sight. 
Why,  there's  every  prairie  creature  here  —  a  dove 

upon  her  nest ; 

Two  white  eggs  beneath  a  friendly  cockle-bur ; 
Lucky  thing  for  you,  old  cocky.    You're  a  most  out 
rageous  pest, 
But  I'll  pass  you  by  because  you  shelter  her. 

Here's  a  sunflower  —  watch  him  nodding  with  his 

saucy,  swarthy  face, 

Golden  ear-ringed,  don't  you  see  the  gypsy  king? 
Amber  beads  bedangled  o'er  him  with  a  frankly, 

flaunting  grace ; 

How  he  jostles  Mr.  Cornstalk,  poor  old  thing. 
Here,  you'll  have  to  stop  it,  Tony,  for  you  quite 

forget  that  you 

Are  a  tramp,  for  all  gaudy,  gilded  crown ; 
You're  a  vagrant,  and  a  dead-beat;  you're  a  non- 
producer,  too, 
And  I've  come  to  chop  you,  Tony  —  tumble  down. 


SUNFLOWERS 


What  a  revelation  dawning,  what  a  wonder  over 
head, 

All  the  tender,  over-arching  azure  dome. 
With  the  sun  ablaze  above  me,  is  it  prairie  paths  I 

tread? 

No,  'tis  fairyland,  'tis  fairyland  I  roam. 
Titania  is  swinging  in  a  silken  hammock  hung 

From  burly  thistle-top  to  goldenrod; 
There's  a  Puck  on  every  jimson-weed  where  once  a 

spider  swung, 
While  milk-weeds  chamber  Pixies  in  each  pod. 

Oh,  'tis  fairyland,  'tis  fairyland,  and  I  a  warrior 

stout, 

With  saber-steel  a-flashing  in  the  sun. 
How  I  charge  the  crazy  gypsy  kings  and  put  them 

all  to  rout; 

Watch  the  long  battalions  waver,  break,  and  run. 
Hark,  I  hear  a  bugle  calling  me,  the  battle-pennons 

gleam. 

Forward  —  once  again  the  supper-horn, 
And  I  wander  home  at  twilight  (Can  it  be  I  only 

dream?) 
From  a  day  of  awful  carnage  in  the  corn. 

Willard  Wattles 


90 


SUNFLOWERS 


Cutting  the  Corn 


The  morning  glows  on  marching  rows 

Of  weary,  tattered  corn; 
The  landscape  looms  with  draggled  plumes 
And  garments  frayed  and  torn. 

The  day  of  doom  is  rising  high 
When  all  the  cornfield  soldiers  die. 

Scream,  ravens,  scream,  the  summer  dream 

Shall  crumble  in  the  breeze; 
Stare,  red-eyed  day,  with  sickly  ray, 

Above  the  dogwood  trees. 

The  cringing  nymphs  are  terror  dumb, 

The  harvest  of  the  corn  has  come. 

» 

Trail  tangled  silken  sheen  no  more ; 

Blue  velvet  blossoms  bleed  and  die ; 
For,  crashing  through  your  bosom's  core, 
The  doom  shall  smite  you,  hip  and  thigh. 
A  tear  or  two  of  sweetened  dew 
The  mourning  year  shall  weep  for  you. 

The  farm  boy  stands  with  eager  hands, 

That  clasp  the  bluish  blade; 
Then  right  and  left  the  stacks  are  cleft, 
And  now  a  wigwam's  made. 

And  like  an  Indian  village  rise 
The  yellow  tents  before  our  eyes. 


Each  blade  stroke  stirs  the  cockle-burs 

And  crab-grass  growing  by, 
While  echoes  shout,  "  Come  out,  come  out ! 
And  see  the  cornfields  die ! " 

And  unseen  nymphs  go  skipping  past 
Unhoused,  unheveled,  doomed  at  last. 

Stampeded  hosts  of  Indian  ghosts, 

And  many  a  vanished  chief, 
Ride  racing  by  with  battle  cry  — 
But  never  stir  a  leaf! 

And  brooding  dreams  of  other  days 
Drift  down  like  dust  upon  the  maize. 

In  gold  and  green  the  country  scene 

Is  decked  in  harvest  trim; 

The  sunshine  sifts  in  bluish  drifts 

Across  the  landscape  dim. 

And  thronging  through  the  autumn  air 
Are  gossamers  of  dryad's  hair. 

The  fodder  shocks  will  feed  the  flocks 

And  herds  of  grunting  swine; 
But  now  they  stand  a  ghostly  band 
Of  tepees  in  a  line. 

The  ancient  moon  creeps  up  the  hill 
To  listen  to  the  whippoorwill. 

C.  L.  Edson 


92 


Farm  Machinery 


We  have  things  with  cogs  and  pulleys  that  will 
stack  and  bale  the  hay,  we  have  scarecrows  auto 
matic  that  will  drive  the  crows  away ;  we  have  riding 
cultivators,  so  we  may  recline  at  ease,  as  we  travel 
up  the  corn  rows,  to  the  tune  of  "  haws "  and 
"  gees ; "  we  have  engines  pumping  water,  running 
churns  and  grinding  corn,  and  one  farmer  that  I 
know  of  has  a  big  steam  dinner  horn;  all  of  which 
is  very  pleasant  to  reflect  upon,  I  think,  but  we  need 
a  good  contrivance  that  will  teach  the  calves  to  drink. 

Now,  as  in  the  days  of  Noah,  man  must  take  a 
massive  pail,  loaded  up  with  milk  denatured,  with 
a  dash  of  Adam's  ale,  and  go  down  among  the  calf- 
kins  as  the  lion  tamer  goes  'mong  the  monarchs  of 
the  jungle,  at  the  famous  three-ring  shows;  and  the 
calves  are  fierce  and  hungry,  and  they  haven't  sense 
to  wait,  till  he  gets  a  good  position  and  has  got  his 
bucket  straight;  and  they  act  as  though  they  hadn't 
e'en  a  glimmering  of  sense,  for  they  climb  upon  his 
shoulders  ere  he  is  inside  the  fence,  and  they  butt 
him  in  the  stomach,  and  they  kick  him  everywhere, 
till  he  thinks  he'd  give  a  nickel  for  a  decent  chance 
to  swear ;  then  they  all  get  underneath  him  and  cap 
size  him  in  the  mud,  and  the  milk  runs  down  his 
whiskers  and  his  garments  in  a  flood,  and  you  really 
ought  to  see  him  when  he  goes  back  to  his  home  quot 
ing  divers  pagan  authors  and  the  bards  of  ancient 


93 


SUNFLOWERS 


Rome.  And  he  murmurs  while  he's  washing  mud 
off  at  the  kitchen  sink:  "What  we  need  is  a  con 
traption  that  will  teach  the  calves  to  drink  !  " 

We've  machinery  for  planting,  we've  machines 
to  reap  and  thrash,  and  the  housewife  has  an  engine 
that  will  grind  up  meat  for  hash;  we've  machines 
to  do  our  washing  and  to  wring  the  laundered  duds, 
we've  machines  for  making  cider  and  to  dig  the 
Eurbank  spuds ;  all  about  the  modern  farmstead  you 
may  hear  the  levers  clink,  but  we're  shy  of  a  con 
trivance  that  will  teach  the  calves  to  drink ! 

Walt  Mason 


94 


SUNFLOWERS 


Before  the  Robin  Dares 

In  the  dark  of  dawn  at  the  verge  of  spring 
I  heard  the  red  bird  caroling. 


When  snow  patches  lie  on  the  links'  soft  folds, 
Or  ever  the  willow  a  catkin  holds, 

When  the  pines  stand  dark  in  the  darkling  west, 
While  the  east  flushes  soft  as  his  shy  mate's  breast, 

The  red  bird  warm  from  the  heart  of  spring 
Sets  bare  branches  a  blossoming; 

And  from  out  the  dark  rings  his  challenge  clear, 
What  cheer  among  mortals?    What  cheer?    What 
cheer? 

At  the  sound  of  his  clarion  sweet  and  high 
My  heart  forgets  the  springs  gone  by, 

And  answers  him  back  in  the  dawn  of  the  year, 
All  cheer,  fellow  mortal!    What  cheer?    All  cheer! 


In  the  dark  of  dawn  at  the  verge  of  spring 
I  heard  the  red  bird  caroling. 

Rose  Morgan 


95 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  Land  That  God  Forgot 


Oh,  the  land  that  God  forgot 

Where  the  sand  and  cactus  ruled, 

Paradise  of  rattlesnakes, 

Bald  and  arid,  brackish-pooled ; 

Hither  Coronado  came 

Lusting  after  precious  stones, 
And  the  fiery  desert  waste 

Whitened  everywhere  with  bones. 

Then  the  Forty-niners  passed 

With  their  oxen  gaunt  and  thin 

And  they  only  knew  the  land 
As  a  place  to  perish,  in ; 

But  at  last  the  mind  of  Man 

With  a  vision  fired  and  thrilled 

Saw  how  empires  lay  asleep, 

Dreamed  of  homes  with  comfort  filled, 

So  the  tawny  sand  was  trenched 

With  a  thousand  fluid  bars 
Which  revived  the  ancient  plain 

Like  the  waterways  of  Mars  — 

Now  the  tender  grass  springs  up, 
And  the  sleek  kine  lay  them  down, 


96 


SUNFLOWERS 


And  the  freights  toil  in  and  out, 

Fat  with  wares  from  many  a  town; 

And  the  wheat  rolls,  billowy-vast, 

And  the  ancient  ocean  bed 
Sends  up  miles  of  tasseled  corn 

Nodding  many  a  silken  head. 

Schools  are  builded,  churches  rise, 
Children  to  the  clime  are  born, 

And  they  learn  to  love  the  land 
Once  a  hissing  and  a  scorn. 

The  land  that  God  forgot, 

Cactus-haunted,  desert-wild, 
Where  the  wide,  bare  bluffs  and  plains      ' 

Never  with  a  harvest  smiled, 

The  land  that  God  forgot, 

Barren  with  Oblivion's  curse !  — 

Nay,  it  held  a  wealth,  like  gold 
In  a  miser's  wretched  purse. 

God  forget?  Through  all  the  years, 

As  a  father  'neath  a  vow, 
He  preserved  its  virgin  worth 

For  its  marriage  with  the  Plow. 

Harry  Kemp 


97 


The  Thrush 

Through  half  a  June  day's  flight, 
Upon  the  prairie,  thirsting  for  the  showers      , 

The  cactus-blooms  and  prickly  poppies  white, 
The  fox-gloves  and  the  pink-tinged  thimble-flowers 

Drooped  in  the  Lord's  great  light. 

Now  suddenly,  straight  to  the  topmost  spray 
Of  a  wild-plum  tree  (I  thereunder  lying) 

Darted  a. thrush  and  fifed  his  roundelay 
Whimsey  on  whimsey,  not  a  stave  denying. 

Quoth  I :  "  From  regions  measureless  miles  away, 
He  hears  the  soughing  winds  and  rain-clouds  flying ; 

And  gathering  sounds  my  duller  ears  refuse, 
He  sets  the  rills  a-rush 

This  way  and  that  to  ripple  me  the  news 
(Right  proud  to  have  his  little  singing  say!) 
And  brings  the  joy  to  pass  with  prophesying." 

So  gladly  trilled  the  thmsh ! 

Soon  was  I  made  aware 
Of  his  small  mate  that  from  the  Judas-tree 

Dropped  softly,  flitting  here  and  flitting  there, 
And  would  not  seem  to  hear  or  seem  to  see. 

He,  in  that  upper  air, 
All  mindful  of  her  wayward  wandering, 

(Primrose  and  creamy-petaled  larkspur  bending 
And  yellow  blossomed  nettle,  prone  to  sting!) 

Shook  out  his  red-brown  wings  as  for  descending 


SUNFLOWERS 


But  lightly  settled  back,  the  more  to  sing. 
"  O  bird !  "  I  sighed,  "  thy  heedless  love  befriending 
With  that  celestial  song-burst  —  whirling  swift 

As  Phaeton's  chariot-rush ! 
Should  my  dear  angel's  voice  so  downward  drift 
Quick  would  my  music-lifted  soul  take  wing !  " 
Now  had  earth's  happiest  song  a  heavenly  ending  — 
Sped,  with  his  mate,  the  thrush. 

Amanda  T.  Jones 


Requiem 


I  am  rambling  with  the  rivers, 
I  am  falling  with  the  rain, 

I  am  waving  in  the  woodland, 
I  am  growing  in  the  grain. 

I  am  marching  in  the  zephyr, 

I  am  rimpling  in  the  rill, 
I  am  blooming  on  the  prairie  — 

But  I  live  in  Kansas  still. 

Eugene  F.  Ware 


99 


SUNFLOWERS 


Sunflowers 

I  saw  a  field  of  sunflowers 

When  all  their  bloom  was  shed, 
A  field  of  Kansas  sunflowers 

All  standing  brown  and  dead, 
They  hovered  there  upon  the  hill; 
And  like  a  phantom  crew, 
The  ghost  of  all  the  sunflowers 

The  prairies  ever  grew 
Came  trooping  toward  me  in  a  crowd, 
Each  shining  through  a  misty  shroud, 
And  flashed  like  fireflies  thro'  my  brain 
As  once  they  lit  the  Kansas  plain. 

For  I  have  known  the  sunflowers 

As  well  as  mortals  know ; 
They  leaned  to  me,  the  sunflowers 

And  whispered,  long  ago  — 
The  things  the  sunflowers  told  me  then, 
Some  day  I'll  tell  the  world  again, 
Some  day  when  all  their  fairy  band 
Is  banished  out  of  Kansas  land. 

For  they  are  of  the  sprite  world, 

They  are  a  fairy  band, 
They  speak  in  mystic  meanings 

We  scarcely  understand. 
They  sprang  in  shining  lanes  of  gold 
Across  the  prairies  where  of  old 


loo 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  "  Forty-Miners'  "  creaking  wains 
Went  rutting  through  the  grassy  plains 

And  so  were  born  the  sunflowers, 
The  nymphs  of  earth  and  air; 

They  reached  their  arms  imploring, 
They  tossed  their  golden  hair; 

They  were  a  fairy  band  that  cried, 

"  The  gold  is  here  on  every  side," 

And  yet  the  argonauts  went  by 

To  vanish  in  the  sunset  sky. 

My  playmates  were  the  sunflowers 
Besides  the  sod  house  door, 

They  spread  a  sweet  enchantment 
That  lured  me  evermore; 

Their  army  queen,  with  shields  ablaze 

Went  marching  down  the  summer  ways  — 

Across  the  mystic  prairie  land 

Where  Youth  and  I  walked  hand  in  hand. 

The  land  grew  full  of  cornstalks 
That  flapped  against  the  sky, 
The  summer  sun  went  running 
Across  the  wheat  and  rye, 
And  nestling  in  the  sunflower's  shade 
The  wild  canary's  nest  was  made ; 
And  every  dream  within  me  born 
Was  of  the  sunflowers  and  the  corn. 


101 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  sound  of  splashing  raindrops, 

The  whistle  of  the  quail, 
The  roar  of  men  and  reapers, 

The  night  hawk  in  the  vale, 
The  crooning  of  the  cradle  song, 
Out  in  the  west  where  I  belong, 
A  day  that  nevermore  may  be  — 
Is  what  the  sunflowers  say  to  me. 

C.  L.  Edson 


When  She  Was  Born  Upon  That 
Kansas  Hill 


When  she  was  born  upon  that  Kansas  Hill 

Soft  April  tiptoed  through  the  prairie  grass, 
Bidding  the  early  meadow-larks  be  still 

And  listen  for  the  coming  soul  to  pass. 
It  came  with  soundless  music  from  the  deep, 

Fulfilled  with  superhuman  harmony 
That  charmed  the  waiting  Easter-bells  to  sleep 

And  made  them  dream  of  mornings  yet  to  be, 
When  she  should  romp  that  hill  and  greet  the  sun 

With  her  clear  treble  and  drink  the  spicy  air 
And  pulse  in  time  with  all  the  life  begun 

In  that  soft  season  of  what  is  sweet  and  fair. 
Oh,  there  was  joy  enough  that  April  morn 
Over  the  Kansas  Hill  where  she  was  born ! 

William  Herbert  Carruth 


103 


SUNFLOWERS 


Pine  Trees  in  Kansas 


"  We  go  to  rear  a  wall  of  men 
On  Freedom's  Southern  line, 

And  plant  beside  the  cotton  tree 
The  rugged  Northern  pine" 

Whittier 

The  cottonwood,  own  child  of  radiant  spring, 
Stands  all  aflutter  in  its  shimmering  green, 
As  not  of  Earth  but  of  some  realm  serene 
Where  Winter  never  comes,  and  Light  is  king, 
Whither  its  leafy  pinions  quivering, 
Its  upflung  boughs  in  their  soft  silver  sheen, 
Seem  ready  to  transport  it  when  the  keen 
Arctural  blasts  stop  its  brief  bourgeoning. 
Behind  it  rise  the  pines  in  dull  array, 
Dark  wintry  aliens  in  a  sunbright  land ; 
Yet  winter's  strength  their  level  boughs  display, 
Strength  fitted  winter's  tempests  to  withstand; 
And  on  them  rests  a  glory  past  compare  — 
The  fulfilled  hope  of  those  who  set  them  there. 

Rose  Morgan 


103 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  Little  Old  Sod  Shanty 
On  the  Claim 


A  FRONTIER  SONG 
Tune  — "  The  Little  Old  Log  Cabin  in  the  Lane." 

I  am  looking  rather  seedy  now,  while  holding  down 
my  claim, 

And  my  victuals  are  not  always  served  the  best, 
And  the  mice  ply  slyly  'round  me  in  my  shanty  on 
the  claim 

As  I  lay  me  down  alone  at  night  to  rest ; 
Yet  I  rather  like  the  novelty  of  living  in  this  way  — 

Though  my  bill-of-fare  is  always  rather  tame  — 
For  I'm  happy  as  a  clam,  on  this  land  of  Uncle  Sam 

In  my  little  old  sod  shanty  on  the  claim. 

CHORUS 

The  hinges  are  of  leather,  and  the  windows  have  no 

glass, 

While  the  roof  it  lets  the  howling  blizzards  in; 
And  I  hear  the  hungry  coyote,  as  he  sneaks  tip  thro' 

the  grass, 
Round  my  little  old  sod  shanty  on  the  claim. 

But  when  I  left  my  Eastern  home,  so  happy  and  so 

gay, 
To  try  and  win  my  way  to  wealth  and  fame, 


104 


SUNFLOWERS 


I  little  thought  that  I'd  come  down  to  burning  twisted 

hay 

In  my  little  old  sod  shanty  on  the  claim. 
My  clothes  are  plastered  o'er  with  dough,  I'm  look 
ing  like  a  fright, 

And  everything  is  scattered  'round  the  room; 
And  I  fear  if  P.  T.  Barnum's  man  of  me  should  get 

a  sight, 
He  would  take  me  from  my  little  cabin  home. 

I  wish  that  some  kind-hearted  miss  would  pity  on 

me  take, 

In  this  mess,  and  extricate  me  from  the  same; 
The  angel !  how  I'd  bless  her,  if  this  her  home  she'd 

make 

In  my  little  old  sod  shanty  on  the  claim; 
And  when  we'd  made  our  fortune  on  the  prairies  of 

the  West, 

Just  as  happy  as  two  bed-bugs  we'd  remain; 
And  we'd  forget  our  trials  and  our  troubles  while 

we'd  rest 
In  our  little  old  sod  shanty  on  the  claim. 

If  now  and  then  a  little  heir  to  bless  our  lives  was 

sent, 

Our  hearts  with  honest  pride  to  cheer  and  flame, 
We  would  surely  be  content  for  the  years  that  we 

had  spent 
In  our  little  old  sod  shanty  on  the  claim. 


105 


SUNFLOWERS 


And  after  years  elapse  and  all  those  little  chaps 
To  men  and  honest  womanhood  have  grown, 

It  won't  seem  half  so  lonely  if  a  dozen  cozy  cots 
Surround  our  old  sod  shanty  on  the  claim. 

CHORUS 

The  hinges  are  of  leather,  and  the  windows  have  no 

glass, 

While  the  roof  it  lets  the  howling  blizzards  in, 
'And  I  hear  the  hungry  coyote,  as  he  sneaks  up  thro' 

the  grass, 
Round  my  little  old  sod  shanty  on  the  claim. 

Anonymous 


The  Red  Bird 


Be  the  weather  never  so  cold,  we  hear 
Your  voice  in  the  tree-tops,  trombone  clear : 
"  Come  out  in  the  bitter !  "  —  "  Now  what  do  you 

fear?" 

But  ever  your  challenge,  bright  trumpeter,  varies : 
"Come  hither !"  —  "  Come  hurrj !  "  —  "  Come  see 

the  green  prairies !  " 

"  Wild  roses !  "  —  "  Primroses !  "  —  "  Blue  vetches !  " 
"S  — o    n  — e  — a  — r  !" 

•          :•          »       '  «          V          •  •  •  •       ,^»          »          • 

i  'Amanda  T.  Jones 

* 

106 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  Song  of  the  Kansas  Emigrant 

We  cross  the  prairies  as  of  old 
The  Pilgrims  crossed  the  sea, 

To  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 
The  homestead  of  the  free. 

CHORUS 

The  homestead  of  the  free,  my  boys, 

The  homestead  of  the  free, 
To  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 

The  homestead  of  the  free. 

We  go  to  rear  a  wall  of  men 

On  Freedom's  Southern  line, 

And  plant  beside  the  cotton  tree 
The  rugged  Northern  pine. 

We're  flowing  from  our  native  hills, 

As  our  free  rivers  flow; 
The  blessings  of  our  mother-land 

Is  on  us  as  we  go. 

We  go  to  plant  her  common  schools 

On  distant  prairie  swells, 
And  give  the  Sabbaths  of  the  wild 

The  music  of  her  bells. 


107 


SUNFLOWERS 


Upbearing,  like  the  ark  of  old, 

The  Bible  in  her  van, 
We  go  to  test  the  truth  of  God 

Against  the  fraud  of  man. 

No  pause,  nor  rest,  save  where  the  streams 

That  feed  the  Kansas  run, 
Save  where  our  pilgrim  gonfalon 

Shall  flout  the  setting  sun. 

We'll  tread  the  prairies  as  of  old 
»     Our  fathers  sailed  the  sea; 
And  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 
The  homestead  of  the  free. 

John  G.  Whittier 


1 08 


SUNFLOWERS 


Stay  West,  Young  Man 

Out  of  the  West  they  called  me,  and  I  turned  my 

face  to  the  East, 
And  there  was  pride  in  my  going,  as  a  bridegroom 

goes  to  the  feast ; 
Here  in  the  land  of  legend  and  the  region  of 

romance 
I  should  sit  at  the  feet  of  learning  and  charter 

thought's  advance; 

For  every  eastern  hill-top  was  sacred  and  divine 
To  the  humble  prairie  plow-boy  who  sought  in  the 

East  a  sign. 

Out  of  the  East  I  turn  me  —  God,  what  my  eyes  have 

seen! 
From  a  land  of  degenerate  farmers,  from  the  Land 

of  the  Might-Have-Been, 
From  the  narrow  hills  of  learning  where  the 

lamp  of  truth  goes  out 
And  the  still,  small  voice  of  the  spirit  is  drowned 

in  the  vulgar  shout, 
From  a  land  of  wanton  cities  and  dread  night  things 

that  prey, 
I  turn  my  face  to  the  West-land  —  God,  give  me  one 

prairie  day! 


109 


Give  me  the  blaze  of  sunshine,  give  me  the  open  sky, 
The  crude,  young  strength  of  manhood  undrained  in 

harlotry  ; 
Give  me  a  voice  that  thunders  and  wisdom  to 

restrain 

The  flail  of  honest  anger  and  pity  for  men's  pain, 
Give  me  the  faith  of  Kansas  and  a  few  young  men 

I  know, 
And  we'll  carry  the  gates  of  Gaza  and  shatter  Jericho. 

The  East  is  an  ulcered  carcass,  bedecked  like  a 

courtesan, 
The  West,  like  a  boy,  has  heard  her  call  and  flushed 

through  his  coat  of  tan, 
He  has  spent,  like  Samson,  his  body's  strength 

for  a  gaudy  finger  ring 
And  the  East  has  fettered  him  body  and  soul 

with  a  rope  of  twisted  string; 
But  I  cannot  keep  in  silence  the  things  my  eyes  have 

seen 

As  I  turn  to  the  youth  of  Kansas  from  the  Land  of 
the  Might-Have-Been. 

Wittard  Wattles 


no 

! 


SUNFLOWERS 


A  Challenge  to  Youth 

Lo,  I  will  shape  you  a  song  for  only  the  strong  to 

sing, 
And  swift  are  its  words  and  sure  as  the  hammered 

sword  of  a  king, 
And  the  grip  of  my  hand  is  stern  as  I  turn  to  its 

fashioning. 

You  who  are  young  and  clean  and  sweetened  by  the 
sun, 

Who  have  followed  the  binder  afield  till  the  blind 
ing  day  was  done 

And  the  sheaves  of  beaten  gold  were  garnered  every 
one, 

Who  have  slept  'neath  the  open  sky  and  pillowed  a 

dusty  head 
On  the  shiny  saddle-leather,  nor  wished  for  a  better 

bed, 
For  you  is  the  music  moulded,  for  you  is  the  anvil 

red. 

I  sing  you  the  song  of  Kansas,  of  reaper,  brand,  and 

spade. 
The  sword  of  youth  more  splendid  than  Alexander's 

blade, 
The  flag  of  faith  transcendant  in  a  mighty  last 

Crusade. 


HI 


SUNFLOWERS 


For  I  have  seen  the  cities  that  loom  over  eastern 
seas, 

And  trodden  the  purple  vintage  of  ancient  revel 
ries, 

Where  the  simpering  grin  of  Bacchus  is  the  mask  of 
miseries. 

The  midnight  reeled  with  laughter  of  rioting  women 

and  men, 
Sleek  waiters  tiptoed  after  and  brimmed  the  glasses 

again, 
Till  the  night  was  a  blare  of  ragtime  and  red  with 

lust  and  pain. 

For  this  is  the  brood  of  the  cities,  elegant,  deb 
onair, 

Men  with  the  scars  of  license  and  women  with  shoul 
ders  bare  — 

But  I  have  swung  in  the  saddle  and  swallowed  the 
prairie  air. 

The  tang  of  the  sun-dried  grasses,  the  spangled  cup 

of  the  sky, 
The  yelp  of  a  hundred  devils  that  shriek  in  the 

coyote's  cry, 
And  forty  miles  of  freedom  and  the  moon  to  canter 

by.    ' 

For  I  have  walked  the  corn-rows  that  are  so  cool 
and  green, 


112 


SUNFLOWERS 


And  I  have  found  the  nesting  dove  under  the  bur 
dock  screen, 

And  many  other  wondrous  things  that  no  one  of 
these  has  seen. 

Oh,  none  beside  the  farmer  boy  who  walks  the  rows 

of  corn, 
When  blowing  winds  are  ministers  that   sound  a 

silver  horn, 
And  dreams  bud  like  the  prairie  rose  upon  a  fairy 

thorn. 

But  now  I  sound  to  battle  and  brazen  the  notes  are 

blown, 
You  whom  the  sun  has  strengthened,  follow  —  the 

flag  is  flown ! 
And  if  you  will  not  follow,  I'll  spur  to  the  charge 

alone. 

Lo,  this  is  the  song  I  shape  you,  a  song  for  the  strong 
and  fleet, 

A  sword  for  the  arms  that  wrestle  with  slippery 
shocks  of  wheat,  '  , 

A  flag  of  the  dreams  of  Kansas  by  wide  winds  win 
nowed  sweet. 

A  sword  for  the  youth  of  Kansas,  a  song  for  their 
lips  to  sing, 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  reckless  sword  of  manhood,  blue  steel  from  the 

furnacing, 
Oh,  who  will  dare  to  wear  it,  still  fresh  from  its 

fashioning  ? 

Willard  Wattles 


Manhood 

Out  of  the  reek  and  swelter,  out  of  the  sink  of  shame, 
Shape  us  the  perfect  manhood  that  leaps  like  a  living 
flame. 

The  Old  World's  foul  corruption  is  poured  on  our 

naked  shores, 

And  the  soul  of  the  nation  festers,  ulcerate  with  sores. 
The  sons  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  on  the  hills  their 

fathers  trod, 
Have  reared  Gomorrah  and  Sodom  in  the  face  of 

their  father's  God ; 
And  the  land  of  the  bloody  meadows,  of  slaughtered 

brother  and  son 
Is    foul    with    the   nameless    vintage    of    perished 

Babylon. 
The  fields  of  folly  are  ripened,  red  and  shameless 

and  bold ; 

The  harvest  is  ready  for  reaping,  and  Esau's  birth 
right  sold. 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  brave  little  Mayflower  breasted  the  thunder 
ing  leagues  of  foam, 

But  the  peoples  she  engendered  have  builded  a  mod 
ern  Rome. 

Rome  of  the  corybantic  worship  of  Orsiris, 

Rome  of  the  leprous  satyr  and  dumb  Astarte's  kiss. 

The  land  of  Standish  and  Edwards,  Revere  and 
Nathan  Hale, 

Has  clanged  to  the  clamoring  cymbals  in  the  hands 
of  the  priests  of  Baal. 

Better  the  blast  of  sirocco  and  a  sudden  terrible 

death 
Than  to  dwell  in  the  tents  of  the  godless  and  suckle 

a  harlot's  breath. 

Better  a  nation  perish,  root  and  blossom  and  branch, 
Whelmed  by  the   mighty  thunder  of  God's   great 

avalanche, 
Than  to  rear  in  perfumed  cities  a  brood  with  feeble 

chins 

Whose  delicate  fingers  tickle  emasculate  violins, 
Where  palaces  of  marble  rise  over  Eastern  seas 
And  people  starve,  while  wantons  batten  on  luxuries. 

Out  of  America's  sorrow,  out  of  'America's  sluzme, 
Shape  us,  O  God,  the  manhood  that  leaps  like  a  liv 
ing  flame! 

Wittard  Wattles 


SUNFLOWERS 


An  Epic  for  Kansas 


For  the  Eunice  Sterling  Chapter  of  the  Daughters 
of  the  American  Revolution,  Wichita. 

I  have  stood  on  the  hill  where  Warren  looked  out 
over  Charlestown  Bay 

When  the  confident  British  frigates  opened  the  fate 
ful  fray 

And  the  red-coats  stormed  the  bulwarks  on  an  un- 
forgotten  day. 

From   a   swarm   of   Italian   children   rises  the  old 

North  spire 
Where  Robert  Newman  mounted  to  kindle  the  beacon 

fire 
And  hang  in  his  rusty  lanterns  the  star  of  a  new 

empire. 

And  I  have  passed  beneath  it  to  where  on  the  silent 

hill 
Old   Cotton   Mather  slumbers,  and   his  thundering 

voice  is  still 
That  sentenced  the  Salem  witches  and  wrought  his 

shame-red  will. 

And  northward  in  the  harbor,  though  the  steadfast 
masts  are  bare, 


.116 


I  have  climbed  to  the  Constitution  over  an  oaken 

stair 
And  stroked  the  immortal  cannon  that  silenced  the 

Guerriere. 

Old  Ironsides  rides  at  anchor  and  her  mightier  chil 
dren  creep 

Home  from  the  far-flung  ocean  that  the  war-dogs 
guard  and  keep, 

The  terrible,  steel-shod  gray-hounds  that  harry  the 
flanks  of  the  deep. 

Old  Ironsides  in  harbor,  and  every  voyage  done, 
Home  from  the  screaming  shrapnel  and  death-ex 
haling  gun, 

Home  where  heroes  slumber  with  Prescott  and 
Washington. 

What  have  we  in  Kansas,  we  of  the  Golden  West, 
To  equal  their  deeds  of  glory  and  kindle  a  patriot's 

breast 
With  tales  of  wild  night-riding,   and  names  by  a 

nation  blessed? 

Is  all  of  the  wonder  vanished?  Are  all  of  the  dreams 
forgot, 

All  of  the  stress  of  battle  when  blood  is  stream 
ing  hot 


SUNFLOWERS 


And  the  dead  undying  squadrons  go  down  in  a  crim 
son  blot? 

Not  alone  in  the  trenches  where  throbbing  war- 
drums  beat 

Are  mustered  the  nation's  heroes  from  ranks  of 
the  strong  and  fleet, 

But  out  of  the  feeble  marchers  on  bruised  and  lag 
ging  feet. 

And  we  of  the  West  have  vanquished  the  stubborn 

lonely  plain 
And  stormed  the  heights  of  famine  and  foundered 

the  ships  of  pain 
And  clothed  with  an  emerald  garment  the  ancient 

scars  of  Cain. 

Never  a  trumpet  sounded,  never  a  blast  was  blown 
When  the  pioneers  of  Kansas  marched  out  to  a  field 

unknown 
And  fronted  drought  and  hunger,  unheralded  and 

lone. 

What  of  the  days  of  struggle,  the  young  corn  shriv 
eled  sear 

With  scarcely  a  blade  left  glossy  and  never  a  full- 
formed  ear, 

And  Care  to  eat  at  your  table,  and  you  made  a  bed 
with  Fear? 


118 


SUNFLOWERS 


Never   a   church-bell    ringing,    scarcely   a   passing 

friend, 
Till  it  seemed  you  had  walked  forever  and  reached 

the  horizon-end ; 
And  ever  the  treeless  prairie  and  the  blazing  skies 

that  bend 

Down  like   a  copper   furnace,  and  the  wind  that 

burned  and  stung 
The  white-washed,  one-roomed   shanty   where   the 

withered  moon-vine  clung; 
And  you  wondered  if  you  had  dreamed  it  that  once 

you  were  gay  and  young. 

What  have  we  in  Kansas,  sprung  from  those  pio 
neers  ? 

A  story  of  deeds  our  fathers  wrought  through  the 
barren  years, 

A  tale  that  our  mothers  sweetened  with  a  baptism 
of  tears. 

Give  me  the  strength  to  sing  it,  the  epic  of  our 

dead, 

The  legend  of  their  glory  and  the  armies  vanquished ; 
Their  battle-fields    of  anguish  bearing   a   nation's 

bread, 

And  those  who  have  knelt  in  homage  before  an 
eastern  shrine 


SUNFLOWERS 


Shall  shake  to  a  mightier  music  and  pledge  with  a 

ruddier  wine 
The  pioneers  of  Kansas  —  Come,  touch  your  cup  to 

mine-  Willard  Wattles 


The  Old  Timer 


You've  built  up  quite  a  city  here,  with  stately 
business  blocks,  and  wires  a-running  far  and  near 
and  handsome  concrete  walks.  The  trolley  cars  go 
whizzing  by,  and  smoke  from  noisy  mills  is  trailing 
slowly  to  the  sky,  and  blotting  out  the  hills.  And 
thirty  years  ago  I  stood  upon  this  same  old  mound, 
with  not  a  house  of  brick  or  wood  for  twenty  miles 
around.  I'm  mighty  glad  to  be  alive,  to  see  the 
change  you've  made;  it's  good  to  watch  this  human 
hive,  and  hear  the  hum  of  trade ! 

I  list  to  the  moans  and  wails 

Of  your  town,  with  its  toiling  hands, 

But  O  for  the  lonely  trails 

That  led  to  the  unknown  lands ! 

I  used  to  camp  right  where  we  stand,  among  these 
motor  cars,  and  silence  brooded  o'er  the  land  as  I 
lay  'neath  the  stars,  save  when  the  drowsy  cattle 
lowed,  or  when  a  broncho  neighed ;  and  now  you 
have  an  asphalt  road,  and  palaces  of  trade.  We  hear 
the  clamor  of  the  host  on  every  wind  that  blows, 


\2Q 


SUNFLOWERS 


where  people  take  the  time  to  hoast  of  how  their  city 
grows !  I  do  not  doubt  that  you  will  rise  to  greater 
heights  of  fame,  and  maybe  paint  across  the  skies 
your  city's  lustrous  name ! 

I  list  to  the  ceaseless  tramp 

Of  the  host,  with  its  hopes  and  fears ; 
But  O  for  the  midnight  camp 

And  the  sound  of  the  milling  steers ! 
Walt  Mason 


To  the  Wild  Verbena 


Verbenas  blue,  verbenas  shining  white, 
Verbenas  of  a  rich,  pulse-quickening  red 
Grow  here  together  in  my  garden  bed, 
Weaving  their  tangled  mats  for  my  delight; 
Yet  do  I  take  less  joyance  in  the  sight 
Of  all  their  beauty,  lavishly  outspread, 
Than  in  contemplating  thy  lowlihead, 
O  wild  verbena,  modestly  bedight. 
Theirs  our  flag's  bright  colors,  your  dull  hue 
Is  aboriginal;  the  primal  clay 
Tinges  your  petals ;  grateful  for  scanty  dew, 
Patient  of  sun,  you  bear  the  scorching  ray 
That  withers  them.    Sweet  wildling,  but  for  you 
Where  now  had  been  their  red,  their  white,  their 
blue? 

Rose  Morgan 


121 


Out  of  the  Kansas  Dust 

Out  of  the  dust  of  Kansas, 

In  old,  primeval  days, 
Out  of  the  shroud  of  a  drifting  cloud 

Across  its  grassy  ways, 
Flaunting  the  flag  of  the  prairie  dust, 

The  shaggy  bisons  graze ; 
Over  a  landscape  red  with  rust 
The  herds  emerge  from  the  Kansas  dust. 

Treading  the  dust  of  Kansas, 
Before  she  knew  her  name; 

Standing  aghast  at  the  vernal  vast, 
The  spying  Spaniard  came. 

And  his  armour  scales  in  the  grassy  vales 
Gleamed  out  like  an  oriflamme, 

As  he  sought  -for  the  fabled  city,  thrust 

Afar  in  the  phantom  desert's  dust. 

Trailing  the  dust  of  Kansas, 

The  Forty-Niners  went; 
Over  the  grass  their  oxen  pass, 

With  their  drovers,  travel-spent. 
And  the  weary  weep  their  souls  to  sleep, 

And  lie  in  a  grassy  tent, 
While  the  rest  press  on  with  feverish  lust, 
For  the  sunset  land  and  its  yellow  dust. 


122 


Into  the  dust  of  Kansas 

Went  tribe  and  caravan ; 
All  swallowed  up  in  the  desert's  cup 

That  drank  them,  horse  and  man. 
And  the  vision  bold  and  the  dream  of  gold, 

It  died  as  it  began. 

And  the  dreamer's  heart  turned  mold  and  must 
And  drifted  dead  in  the  dreamless  dust. 

Out  of  the  dust  of  Kansas 

The  marching  dead  return  — 
Beneath  the  beat  of  their  spectral  feet 

The  springing  poppies  burn  ! 
And  out  of  their  tomb  the  towers  loom 

Like  genii  from  an  urn. 
The  burnished  cities  are  skyward  thrust, 
Rending  the  veil  of  the  Kansas  dust. 

Out  of  the  dust  of  Kansas, 

They  lift  the  voice  of  song ; 
Out  of  her  heart  the  visions  start 

That  lead  the  world  along ! 
Her  sons  have  eaten  the  mystic  bread 

That  makes  a  people  strong. 
And  He  whom  the  stumbling  nations  trust 
Is  salting  the  world  with  the  Kansas  dust. 

George  T.  and  C.  L.  Edson 


123 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  Real  Foreign  Invasion 


I'm  going  to  quit  the  farm,  Bill,  my  farming  days 

are  done  — 
The  young  ones  all  have  left  me  to  swell  the  city 

tide; 
My  years  have  passed  the  zenith  and  life's  declining 

sun 

Is   gleaming   from   the   Westward   across   the 
prairies  wide. 

I've  cattle  in  the  feed  lots  and  porkers  in  the  shed, 
And  hayracks  and  haystacks  and  cribs  of  Kansas 

corn  — 
But,  O,  it  seems  a  pity,  all  the  boys  have  sought  the 

city, 

And  none  would  stay  to  till  the  soil,  the  land 
where  they  were  born. 

I've  seen  my  children  leave  me  and  then  those  of  all 

my  neighbors, 
And  then  I  saw  my  neighbors  go,  and  foreign 

farmers  came; 
And  the  cattle  at  the  mangers  knew  the  accents  of 

the  strangers, 

And  the  English  tongue  is  silenced  and  the  land 
is  not  the  same.  N 


124 


SUNFLOWERS 


Of  all  the  old  Americans  that  settled  up  this  coun 
try, 
The  boys  that  were  my  comrades  when  your  dad 

was  green  as  May, 
Who  made  the  old  days  merry  as  we  broke  the 

virgin  prairie  — 

They  are  sleeping  'neath  the  limestone  or  they've 
wandered  far  away. 

I  have  seen  the  dark  Bohemians  come  creeping  all 

around  me  — 
McCracken   sold   and   Jenks   sold,   and   Rabbit 

Smith  he  died; 
And  then  there  came  a  season  when  to  sell  it  seemed 

a  treason, 

For  the  native  crowd  began  to  fear  the  sweeping 
foreign  tide. 

For  every  time  a  farm  was  sold  a  foreigner  would 

take  it, 
Well  I  remember  Sod  Corn  Jones,  the  way  it 

hurt  his  pride  — 
On  the  homestead  that  he  founded,  when  at  last  he 

was  surrounded, 

By  the  men   from   Southern   Europe   joining 
fence  on  every  side. 


125 


SUNFLOWERS 


Since  we  steered  our  covered  wagon  through 

the  blue  stem  of  this  state ; 

And  each  fellow  stuck  his  mug  out  of  the  sod  con 
structed  dugout, 

And  began  the  task  of  harnessing  the  caprices 
of  fate. 

We  had  claimed  a  virgin  country  where  no  plow  had 

kissed  the  grass  roots ; 
We  were  first  to  come  with  hamestraps  and  with 

wheels  and  plowing  gear, 
And  the  hoppers  and  the  blizzards  couldn't  daunt  our 

youthful  gizzards, 

For  our  army  days  were  over,  but  our  fighting 
line  was  here. 

Of  the  boys  that  whipped  the  prairie  in  the  days  of 

"  little  eating," 
When  the  rabbit  was  our  savior  and  we  cooked 

with  "  prairie  coal," 
Not  a  one  is  left  to  cheer  me  as  the  evil  days  come 

near  me, 

And  the  flag  of  my  surrender  hangs  half-masted 
at  the  pole. 

O'er  yon  hilltop  is  the  village  one  time  filled  with 

Yankee  fellows, 

Where  we  used  to  loaf  in  summer  when  the  corn 
.    was  in  the  ear; 


126 


SUNFLOWERS 


There  the  strangers  now  are  thronging  and  my  heart 

is  crushed  with  longing, 

As  I  wander  through  the  village  and  no  native 
accents  hear. 

I  have  kept  the  vow  I  promised ;  I'm  the  lest  to  leave 

my  birthright; 
I'm  the  last  whose  tongue  knows  English,  and 

my  eyes  are  wet  with  tears ; 
For  last  week  old  Bill  De venter  took  the  train  from 

Richland  Center, 

And  the  last  link  broke  that  bound  me  to  those 
early  Kansas  years. 

I  had  hoped  my  children's  children  here  would  till 

these  fertile  acres, 
Tend  the  cattle  on  the  hillsides  and  the  clover 

in  the  dales; 
And  we've  all  reared  boys  a-plenty,  but  when  they 

reached  one  and  twenty, 

City-ward  they  went  a-flying  down  yon  reach 
of  shining  rails. 

Strange,  glum  men  from  o'er  the  ocean,  with  their 

wasteful  farming  methods, 
Till  those  farms  that  Yankee  muscle  once  made 

laugh  a  harvest  tide; 
And  where  Rabbit  Smith  lies  sleeping,  alien  feet  go 

creeping,  creeping, 


127 


And  the  plow  whose  kisses  curse  us  spreads  its 
desolation  wide. 

Sod  Corn  Jones  whose  magic  foresight  proved  that 

new  turned  sod  was  able 
To  yield  up  a  hundred  bushels  to  the  acre  cropped 

in  maize; 
In  his  grave  he  must  be  burning,  with  a  frenzy  and  a 

yearning, 

For  his  land  is  surely  turning  —  desert  tilled  in 
fatal  ways. 

Who  will  save  this  land  from  ruin,  from  the  dust 

storm  and  the  famine; 
Why  have  all  our  farm-bred  children  spurntd 

their  father's  native  soil? 
Why  is  English  no  more  spoken  in  the  fields  our 

plows  have  broken? 

Must  my  land  be  ripped  to  bedrock,  now  that 
I'm  too  old  to  toil? 

I  had  hoped  some  son  returning  from  the  wage  war 

in  the  city 
Would  take  up  this  rich  dominion  I  have  battled 

for  so  long ; 
So  that  in  the  summer  weather,  Ma  and  I  could  sit 

together 

And  could  watch  the  browsing  cattle  and  could 
hear  the  harvest  song. 


128 


SUNFLOWERS 


One  by  one  our  children  left  us,  one  by  one  our 

friends  departed, 
Till  no  soul  that  knew  the  rapture  of  the  conquest 

of  the  grass 
Is  beside  us  at  the  parting,  none  to  see  the  tear-drops 

starting, 

But  I've  kept  the  vow  I  promised,  and  my  time 
has  come  to  pass. 

Fare  you  well,  my  Kansas  acres,  when  the  sun  comes 

up  tomorrow, 
Strangers'  eyes  shall  lift  to  greet  you,  strangers' 

feet  my  fields  shall  tread; 
And  the  long  teeth  of  the  river,  they  shall  gnaw  these 

hills  forever, 

And  God  help  my  city  children  in  the  hour  they 
ask  for  bread. 

C.  L.  Edson 


129 


SUNFLOWERS 


Kansas 

Give  me  the  land  where  miles  of  wheat 
Ripple  beneath  the  wind's  light  feet, 
Where  the  green  armies  of  the  corn 
Sway  in  the  first  sweet  breath  of  morn; 
Give  me  the  large  and  liberal  land 
Of  the  open  heart  and  the  generous  hand. 
Under  the  widespread  Kansas  sky 
Let  me  live  and  let  me  die. 

Harry  Kemp 


The  Gradgerratun'  of  Joe 


Way  down  crost  the  meadow  an'  cow-lot, 

Thro'  paths  made  by  cattle  an'  sheep, 
Where,  cooled  in  the  shade  by  the  tall  ellums  made, 

The  old  crick  has  curled  up  to  sleep ; 
Down  there  where  the  wind  sighun'  mingles 

'Ith  prattelun'  waters  at  play, 
And  the  coo  coo  coo  of  the  turtle-dove  too, 

Seeps  in  from  the  dim  far  away ; 
Down  there  by  the  banks  of  the  Wilier  — 

In  spring  where  the  sweet-williams  grow  — 
'Twas  at  this  place  'at  he  all  the  time  used  to  be  — 

The  home  of  our  little  boy  Joe. 
My  oh  — 

How  long  ago. 


130 


SUNFLOWERS 


Nope ;  none  o'  you  couldn't  a'  knowed  him, 

Way  back  there  in  seventy-four, 
When  Idy  an'  me  concluded  'at  we 

'Ud  edjicate  Joe,  rich  or  pore. 
I  mind  how  we  skimped,  scraped,  an'  worried, 

An'  how  our  first  Christmas  was  dim, 
An'  how  mother  cried  when  we  had  to  decide, 

We  couldn't  send  nothin'  to  him. 
An'  nobidy  else  dreams  the  sorrow 

'At  Idy  an'  me'd  undergo, 
A  livin'  that  way  all  alone  ever'  day, 

A  yearnun'  an'  longun'  fer  Joe. 
High  O. 

Long  ago. 

So  Idy  an'  me  went  together, 

To  hear  little  Joe  gradgerrate; 
Little  Joe,  did  I  say?    Meant  big,  anyway; 

He  spoke  on  the  subject  of  "  Fate." 
An'  my !  but  the  "  effort  was  splendid," 

The  folks  said  'at  set  by  my  side, 
But  I  never  hurd  a  sentence  'er  word  — 

An'  mother  jest  broke  down  an'  cried. 
I  hadn't  the  heart  fer  to  ask  her 

What  was  the  matter,  you  know; 
Fer  I  felt  she'd  'a'  said:  "  Our  baby  is  dead, 

I  want  back  my  own  little  Joe : 
Our  Joe 

Of  long  ago." 


SUNFLOWERS 


So  foller  me  down  thro'  the  cow-lot  — 

Thro'  paths  made  by  cattle  an'  sheep, 
To  where  in  the  shade  by  the  tall  ellums  made 

The  old  creek  is  tucked  in  to  sleep; 
Where  sighs  of  the  tired  breeze  whisper 

To  quiet  the  waters  at  play; 
An*  the  dreamy  coo  coo  of  the  turtle-dove  true 

Frightens  care-phantoms  away; 
Fer  I  like  to  set  hyur  a  thinkun', 

An'  astun  the  waters  'at  play, 
What's  come  o'  the  dear  little  boy  'at  played  here 

In  the  days  o'  the  long  ago? 
Oar  Joe; 
High  ho ! 

William  'Allen  White 


The  Little  Tree 


In  a  fair  branching  sisterhood, 
Protecting  each  other  as  sisters  should, 

The  crabapple  trees  in  the  hollow  stand, 
Closely  crowding,  hand  in  hand. 

But  on  the  hilltop's  barren  crest, 
Sundered  far  from  all  the  rest, 

Whipt  by  all  the  winds  that  blow, 
Five  little  trees  together  grow. 


132 


SUNFLOWERS 


They  put  out  their  hands,  but  cannot  reach, 
For  all  their  striving,  each  to  each. 

Thus  the  others  could  not  aid 

When  a  direful  stroke  at  one  was  made  — 

A  stroke  that  maimed  the  little  tree 
And  left  her  praying  not  to  be  — 

A  piteous  sight  for  who  might  pass, 
Her  topmost  twigs  in  the  matted  grass. 

But  when  fair  Spring  came  by  that  way, 
Could  the  tree  her  bidding  mild  gainsay? 

One  weakling  bud  was  left  her  still  — 
She  put  it  forth  with  a  quickening  will. 

Now  here  she  stands,  a  cripple  bent, 
Calm  with  wild  Nature's  calm  content; 

And  when  again  the  thrushes  sing, 
She'll  hold  her  nosegay  out  to  Spring. 

Somehow,  fairest  of  all  I  find 
The  little  tree  that  would  not  be  — 
But  changed  her  mind. 

Rose  Morgan 


133 


SUNFLOWERS 


On  the  Links 


Said  the  locust  trees  to  the  sycamore  tree, 
"  You  are  one,  but  two  are  we. 

It  is  not  good  to  stand  alone; 
Go  get  you  back  unto  your  own." 

To  the  locust  trees  said  the  sycamore  tree, 
"  Heaven  set  me  here  where  all  may  see ; 

My  leaves  are  the  swift  rain's  castanet; 
As  a  harp  for  the  wind  my  boughs  are  set ; 

From  my  topmost  twig  the  redbird  sings, 
Below  flits  his  brother  with  bluebird  wings ; 

And  in  the  shade  I  must  spread  at  my  feet 
Prances  the  robin  with  motion  fleet; 

While  for  them  and  for  you  my  pendulums  mark 
The  lightfoot  moments  from  dawn  to  dark. 

These  are  the  tasks  I  am  set  to  do ; 

For  companionship  Heaven  gave  me  —  you." 

Said  the  locust  trees  to  the  sycamore  tree, 
"  One  are  you,  but  we  are  three." 

Rose  Morgan 


134 


The  Maverick 


There  is  wonder  in  the  wander-lust  that  sets  the 

feet  to  roaming, 
And  love  has  met  me  on  the  road  and  sweetened  all 

the  gloaming; 
Still,  hard  it  is  to  walk  so  far,  the  while  my  heart  is 

homing 
For  the  West-land,  the  best  land,  the  land  that  gave 

me  birth, 
The  wide  and  sunny  prairie-land,  the  fairest  land  of 

earth, 

Oh,  hills  are  kind  and  comforting,  and  spicy  woods 

are  clean, 
And  there's  familiar  friendship  in  the  homely  dales 

between, 
But  I  have  seen  the  sunflower  in  a  dress  of  dusty 

green, 
The  sunflower,  the  one  flower,  the  flower  that  gypsies 

wear 
When  they  go  singing  down  the  years,  with  star-dust 

in  their  hair. 

Oh,  every  road  in  Kansas-land  is  walled  about  with 

gold, 

And  overhead  the  August  sun  is  like  a  lord  of  old 
A-riding  down  to  Palestine,  and  staunch  is  he  to 

hold 


135 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  West  way,  the  best  way,  the  way  that  I  would 

take 
If  I  could  scale  these  sullen  walls  where  all  my 

lances  break. 

T^he  hills  of  Massachusetts   are  a-bud  with   early 
spring, 

But  it's  little  that  I  reck  or  care  for  all  their  bur 
geoning  ; 

For  my  heart  is  at  the  stirrup  and  I  feel  the  pommel 
swing  — 

The  West-land,  the  blessed  land,  I  hear  the  homing 
call, 

The  wide  and  sunny  prairie-land,  the  fairest  land 
of,all. 

Willard  Wattles 


SUNFLOWERS 


Threshing  Time 


There's  dew  on  the  stubble  and  fog  in  the  air, 

And  a  red  eye  peeps  over  the  hill, 
And  a  white  flag  of  steam,  flaring  up  with  a  scream, 
Has  awakened  the  dull,  drowsing  doves  from  their 
dream 

On  the  aged,  gray  granary  sill. 

And  through  dew  on  the  grasses  and  fog  in  the  air, 
The  throng  of  the  threshers  is  gathering  there. 
With  toiling  and  tugging,  and  lifting  and  lugging, 
They  belt  the  steam   engine  that's  wheezing  and 

chugging  — 

And  pitchforks  are  gleaming  and  laborers  laugh, 
Preparing  to  hurry  the  wheat  from  the  chaff. 

The  smoke  and  the  vapor  float  over  the  trees, 
And  a  stamping  horse  rattles  a  chain; 

And  men  with  red  handkerchiefs  looped  at  their 
throats 

Are  climbing  the  mountains  of  barley  and  oats, 
The  beautiful  Alps  of  the  grain. 

The  smoke  and  the  vapor  floats  over  the  trees, 

And  the  sun  now  has  routed  the  fog  on  the  breeze, 

While    creaking    and    turning,    and    slapping    and 
churning, 

The  belted  red  thresher  has  lisped  out  its  yearning  — 


137 


SUNFLOWERS 


Has  mumbled  its  hunger  in  mourn  fulest  note, 

And  the  first  sheaf  is  ground  in  its  ravenous  throat. 

II 

"  Look  out,  fellers.    Let  'er  go ! 

Pitch  them  first  few  bundles  slow. 

Hold  on,  son,  don't  gash  my  hands 

When  you're  cuttin'  off  them  bands. 

Wheat's  a-spilling.    Hey,  you  Jack ! 

Run  that  cussed  wagon  back ! 

Grab  a  wheel,  Bill,  help  him  there. 

We  ain't  got  no  wheat  to  spare. 

Wheat's  too  high  now,  I'll  be  bound, 

To  thresh  and  throw  it  on  the  ground. 

Belt 's  off  now !  And  I  just  said 

You  boys  would  get  her  over-fed. 

You  mustn't  try  to  rush  her  through ; 

The  straw's  still  tough  and  damp  with  dew. 

When  the  sun  gets  two  hours  high 

You  will  find  it's  plenty  dry. 

All  right,  let  'er  go  again; 

Now  we're  threshin'  out  the  grain. 

See  how  plump  them  berries  is ; 

That's  the  stuff  that  does  the  biz. 

That  there  wheat's  from  college  seed 

Of  selected  Turkey  breed; 

The  land  was  fall  plowed  just  as  soon  — 

All  right,  boy,  she's  blowed  for  noon. 

Ease  her  down  and  hold  her  steady, 

Women  folks  says  grub  is  ready." 


138 


SUNFLOWERS 


III 

Now  the  thirsty  sun  swings  lower  on  his  torrid  path 

to  earth, 

And  the  yellow  straw  is  piling  toward  the  sky. 
Say,  a  feller  learns  at  threshm'  what  a  drink  of 

water's  worth, 
For  it  tastes  as  sweet  as  cider  when  you're  dry. 

At  last  the  sun  is  setting,  just  a  crimson  ball  of  fire, 

And  a  coolness  all  the  atmosphere  pervades; 
The  stalwart  feeder's  dusty  arms  at  last  begin  to 

tire, 

And  the  last  sheaf  passes  downward  through  the 
blades. 

Now  the  whistle's  long-drawn  wailing  is  a  song  of 
i  seraphim, 

And  the  stars  light  up  in  heaven's  purple  deep ; 
And  the  smoking  and  the  joking,  how  it  rests  the 
weary  limb 

Ere  bedtime  ushers  in  the  perfect  sleep. 

IV 

The  day  is  over, 

The  world  is  fed. 
And  the  farmer  sleeps 

On  his  feather  bed. 

C.  L.  Edson 


139 


On  the  Farm 


How  sweet  to  lean  on  Nature's  arm, 

And  jog  through  life  upon  the  farm; 

Merchants  and  brokers  spread  a  dash 

A  little  while,  then  go  to  smash; 

But  we  can  keep  from  day  to  day 

The  even  tenor  of  our  way. 

(There  go  those  horses!  Quick,  John,  catch  'em. 

They'll  break  their  necks!    You  didn't  hitch  'em.) 

How  sweet 'and  shrill  the  plow-boy's  song, 

As  merrily  he  jogs  along; 

The  playful  breeze  about  him  whirls, 

And  tosses  wide  his  yellow  curls. 

His  hands  are  brown,  his  cheeks  are  red  — 

An  ever-blooming  flower-bed. 

Unspoiled  by  crowds,  unvexed  by  care  — 

(Goodness!  do  hear  the  urchin  swear!) 

How  soft  the  summer  showers  fall, 
On  field  and  garden,  cheering  all; 
How  bright  in  woods  the  diamond  sheen, 
Of  rain-drops  strung  on  threads  of  green  — 
Each  oak  a  king  with  jewel  crown. 
(The  wind  has  blown  the  haystack  down! 
I  knew  'twould  hail,  it  got  so  warm. 
That  fence  is  flat.    My!  what  a  storm!) 


140 


SUNFLOWERS 


How  soft  the  hazy  summer  night! 
On  dewy  grass  the  moon's  pale  light 
Rests  dreamily.    It  falls  in  town 
On  smoky  roofs  and  pavements  brown. 
How  tenderly  when  night  is  gone, 
Breaks  o'er  the  fields  the  summer  dawn ! 
How  sweet  and  pure  the  scented  morn. 
(Get  up.'  Old  Molly's  in  the  corn!) 

Far  from  the  city's  dust  and  broil, 
We  women  sing  at  household  toil, 
Nor  scorn  to  work  with  hardened  hands; 
We  laugh  at  fashion's  bars  and  bands, 
And  on  our  cheeks  wear  nature's  rose. 
(That  calf  is  nibbling  at  my  clothes! 
Off  she  goes  at  double  shuffle, 
Chewing  down  my  finest  ruffle!) 

We  workers  in  our  loom  of  life, 
Far  from  the  city's  din  and  strife, 
Weave  many  a  soft,  poetic  rose, 
With  patient  hand  through  warp  of  prose; 
We  love  our  labor  more  and  more. 
(John!  here!  the  pigs  are  at  the  door! 
They've  burst  the  stye  and  scaled  the  wall  — 
There  goes  my  kettle,  soap  and  all!) 

Ellen  P.  Allerton 


141 


SUNFLOWERS 


A  Regular  Dry  Spell 

Said  Uncle  Bye  to  Judson  Nye, 
"Well,  old  top,  it's  sure  some  dry, 
Oats  aren't  more  than  a  half-inch  high. 
When  you  goin'  a  get  your  corn  laid  by?" 

"  Talk  about  dry,"  said  Neighbor  Nye, 

"  Why,  I've  scorched  my  eye  like  an  oyster  fry, 

Peeling  that  orb  at  the  red-hot  sky 

Watching  for  clouds,  but  they  don't  drift  by. 

Here  it  is  close  to  the  Fo't  July. 

Can  you  lay  corn  by  when  it  ain't  knee-high  ?  " 

"  Corn's  awful  backward  sure  this  year ; 

Don't  look  like  it  could  make  an  ear. 

The   Lord,   He's   watching   each   green   young 

spear, 
And  my  corn's  just  as  good  as  the  rest  'round 

here. 

It's  clean  as  the  floor  of  a  barn,  darn  near. 
The  growth  is  slow,  I  admit  that's  so ; 
But  in  nary  a  row  does  the  least  weed  show, 
It's  so  plumb  darn  dry  that  the  weeds  can't 

grow ! " 

Uncle  Bye  said,  "If  you're  asking  me, 

I  swan,  I  swear  that  I  never  did  see 

Such  a  long  dry  spell.    And  so  hot,  too.  Gee ! 


142 


SUNFLOWERS 


But  'twas  just  like  this  in  ninety-three. 
It  cut  off  raining  away  in  May, 
Had  to  use  scissors  to  cut  the  hay. 
Some  of  it  short  as  a  goslin's  fuzz, 
We  lathered  and  shaved  like  a  barber  does; 
Corn  rolled  up  like  a  cigarette; 
A  chap  could  have  smoked  the  stuff,  I  bet. 
I  tell  you  what,  if  you  b'lieve  my  words, 
Little  chicks  grew  up  to  full-sized  birds, 
Summer-born  calves  they  were  five  feet  tall, 
And  never  yet  seen  one  raindrop  fall ! 
Hay  was  twenty-five  dollars  a  ton, 
Cash  couldn't  get  it,  'cause  there  wasn't  none. 
Yet  here  is  the  fact  that  seems  so  queer, 
That  was  a  scandalous  big  peach  year. 
They  grew  everywhere  that  the  eye  could  see, 
On  any  bush  claiming  to  be  a  tree ; 
You  could  drive  right  along  beside  the  road 
And  shake  them  off  by  the  wagon  load. 
Though  it's  dry  and  hot,  I  tell  you  what, 
Peaches  can  stand  a  terrible  lot. 
If  it  rains  this  year,  some  time  'fore  fall, 
There'll   be   peaches   to    throw    at   the   birds, 
that's  all." 

C.  L.  Edson 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  Farmer 

The  farmer  is  a  man  of  wit, 
There's  a  simply  no  denying  it ! 
He  leads  a  life  of  pampered  ease, 
And  is  as  happy  as  you  please. ' 

At  9  o'clock  he's  ready  for 
His  morning  rolls  and  cafe  noir; 
And  when  the  gourmet  thus  is  fed, 
His  valet  helps  him  out  of  bed. 
From  10  to  i  he  reads  the  news, 
The  market  tips  and  trade  reviews; 
To  corn  and  wheat  his  heed  he  gives, 
For  'tis  by  these  the  farmer  lives. 

So  having  figured  for  the  day 
Which  way  the  markets  he  will  play, 
His  batch  of  daily  bread  is  made 
By  dealing  on  the  Board  of  Trade. 
His  daily  labor  being  through, 
The  farmer  takes  his  lunch  at  2; 
Then  donning  riding-garb,  he'll  call 
His  favorite  motor  from  the  stall. 

He  rides  about  to  view  his  farm, 
And  feel  the  restful  country's  charm. 
His  wife,  with  paints  and  sketching  pad, 
And  all  the  trinkets  of  her  fad, 


144 


Her  easel  sets  beneath  the  tree, 
And  paints  the  view  from  2  to  3 ; 
At  6  o'clock  they  dine  in  state  — 
The  farming  life  is  simply  great! 

The  products  of  the  earth  and  air 
Are  on  the  table  groaning  there. 
Sweet  milk  is  always  at  their  hand, 
Bought  by  the  case  all  neatly  canned. 
The  trolley  line  that  rattles  down, 
It  brings  them  butter  fresh  from  town, 
And  eggs  and  luscious  chicken  fries, 
The  best  the  city's  mart  supplies; 

Green  truck  and  fruit  all  crisp  and  nice, 

Just  taken  from  cold  storage  ice; 

And  juicy,  luscious  ham,  O  my! 

The  best  the  packers  can  supply. 

No  wonder  life  upon  the  farm 

Has  always  held  so  rare  a  charm! 

The  cry  of  "  Rube !  "  which  town  folks  shout, 

Is  only  envy,  inside  out. 

C.  L.  Edson 


145 


Butchering  Day 

High  through  the  sky  see  the  homing  birds  sailing  — 

It's  butchering  time. 

Frost  on  the  fences,  on  picket  and  paling  — 
Hear  the  weird  winter  wind  whining  and  wailing, 
The    warmth    and    the    daylight    are    flitting    and 
failing  — 

It's  hog-killing  time. 

The  season  of  feasting  has  come  with  the  fall, 

And  the  digging  of  yams. 
The  corn- fattened  oxen  are  sleek  in  the  stall 

And  the  hogs  are  all  hams. 
The  hands  of  the  harvest  have  come  from  their 

toiling, 

They've  set  the  black  pot  full  of  water  a-boiling, 
There's  a  jangle  of  knives  and  the  whetstone  they're 
oiling  — 

It's  butchering  time. 

The  women  have  laid  down  their  sewin'  and  stitchin', 

There's  a  stir  in  the  place  — 
And  their  laughter  and  chatter  reflects   from  the 

kitchen  — 

The  joy  of  the  chase. 

For  old  primal  passions  are  stirring  again, 
And  a  wave  of  the  cave*d\veller  days  on  their  ken 
\ 


146 


Lures  them  keen  on  the  blood-sprinkled  trail  of  the 

men  — 
At  butchering  time. 

The  porker  is  squealing  the  pangs  of  his  fear, 

For  the  chase  has  grown  hot. 
His  cry  is  like  music  to  every  ear, 
It's  a  flash  of  the  cave  man  pursuing  the  deer, 
It's  the  lusty  and  blood-shedding  time  of  the  year, 
And  the  moment  of  rapture  and  capture  is  here  — 

There's  the  sound  of  a  shot. 

The  prey  has  gone  down  and  the  men  with  a  shout 
Plunge  a  knife  in  its  heart  and  the  life  gurgles  out, 

In  the  old  feeding  lot. 

,  / 

And  the  women  come  out  with  a  smile  on  each  face 

To  their  part  in  the  task  — 

As  our  foremothers  followed  the  men  to  the  chase 
In  an  age  that  is  hid  in  the  hazes  of  space 

And  Time's  motionless  mask. 
But  we  know  that  the  past  surges  back  in  our  veins, 

.  At  the  terrified  cry, 
And  the  fever  of  conquest  lights  up  in  our  brains, 

And  the  blood-lust  in  eye; 
And  the  best  day  of  all,  in  the  lap  of  the  fall, 

With  its  multifold  charm, 
Is  the  thick  of  the  fray  upon  butchering  day  — 

On  the  farm. 

C.  L.  Edson 


147 


SUNFLOWERS 


My  People 

I  have  dwelt  in  a  land  of  strangers  where  even  the 

sun  is  cold, 
And  the  hills  are  damp  with  the  sweat  of  age  and 

rotten  with  its  mould; 
The  hemlocks  stretch  their  shuddering  arms  where 

ancient  lichens  cling, 
And  winter  lingers  the  summer  through  in  the  lap  of 

the  fainting  spring. 
The  sad  skies  weep  through  the  somber  gloom  that 

gathers  overhead 
And  the  shadows  close  like  a  charnel-house  when  the 

pallid  day  is  dead; 
But  human  creatures  live  and  love  and  crumble  with 

the  rains 
Who  never  knew  the  madness  of  the  sunshine  in 

their  veins. 

They  never  felt  the  touches  of  the  south  wind  on 

their  faces 
When  down  she  sweeps  upon  them  from  the  azured 

open  spaces; 
They  never  saw  the  wild  rose  in  a  tangle  at  their 

feet, 
The  bumble-bee  that  filches  all  her  shyly  treasured 

sweet ; 
For  them  no  tawny  sunflowers  with  their  crowns 

of  beaten  gold 


148 


SUNFLOWERS 


Have  nodded  through  the  summer  sun  like  Spanish 

kings  of  old; 
They  never  stumbled  in  the  grass  upon  the  brown 

quail's  brood 
And  heard  their  frightened  cheeping  break  the 

prairie  solitude. 

But  what  of  ye,  my  people,  in  the  furrows  where 

you  stand, 
With  your  eyes  of  patient  watching  and  the  cheeks 

that  June  has  tanned? 
Ye  have  turned  with  adoration  toward  the  homeland 

of  your  youth 
And  have  worshipped  in  a  childish  faith  the  empty 

husks  of  Truth ; 
With  the  confidence  of  children  ye  have  followed 

from  afar 
And  eastward  turned  your  yearnings  as  the  Wise 

Men  to  the  Star ; 
Ye  do  not  know  as  I  know  all  the  empty,  faithless 

shrines 
And  the  altars  where  the  sodden  priests  are  drunk 

with  wanton  wines. 

Ye  do  not  know  as  I  know  all  the  glory  of  the  West, 
(Or  is  it  that  ye  know  it  well  and  leave  it  unex 
pressed?) 

I  am  one  with  ye,  my  people,  of  the  rough,  work- 
hardened  hands, 


149 


SUNFLOWERS 


Have  trod  the  furrows  ye  have  trod  across  the  level 

lands, 
Have  felt  the  hot  wind's  fevered  breath  when  cloud 

on  cloud  was  arched, 
While  all  the  earth  cried  out  for  rain  and  every 

throat  was  parched. 
In  reverence  I  bow  me  down  before  those  patient 

eyes 
That  see  across  the  shriveled  corn  a  rainbow  in 

the  skies. 

Is  it  wonder,  then,  my  people,  that  we  storm  the 

heights  of  God? 
For  they  know  Him  best  who  build  for  Him  an  altar 

from  the  sod. 
Is  it  wonder  that  our  dreamers  who  have  died  the 

death  of  shame, 
As  John  Brown  on  the  gallows-tree,  have  set  the 

world  aflame? 
We  are  young,  but  through  our  pulses  leaps  a  flood 

from  heroes'  veins, 
Men  who  struck  in  flaming  anger  at  the  Southland's 

slaving  chains; 

Then  to  homely  ploughshares  forging  every  battle- 
gleaming  blade, 
They  have  wrestled  in  the  desert  with  an  Angel 

undismayed. 

Day  by  day  the  dread  endeavor,  muscles  tense  and 
faces  grim, 


150 


SUNFLOWERS 


With  the  prairie  like  a  caldron  banded  by  a  brazen 

rim: 
Now  the  corn  in  rich  abundance  heals  the  ancient 

scars  of  pain, 
And  the  wheat-field's  golden  deluge  overflows  the 

fertile  plain. 
'Twas  for  love  of  us,  my  people,  you  and  me,  their 

children  still, 
Though  their  toil-worn  bodies  slumber  on  the  little, 

lonely  hill. 
Lo,  the  eastern  shrines  are  pallid,  cursed  as  Cain 

their  sacrifice, 
And  we  turn  our  faces  westward  where  our  own 

white  altars  rise. 

WiUard  Wattles 


As  a  Tale  That  Is  Told 


This  is  the  tale  of  Kansas,  and  this  way  her  legends 

run 
From  the  dawn  of  the  day  on  her  eastern  rim  to  the 

going  down  of  the  sun ; 
Whatever  js  done  in  thy  valleys,  whatever  is  said  on 

thy  heights, 
Thy  losses,  and  crosses,  and  sorrows;  thy  triumphs, 

thy  joys,  and  delights  — 

Tho'  the  deed  be  done  in  the  shadow,  and  only  a  mur 
mur  the  word 
The  tyes  of  the  nation  behold  it,  the  ear  of  the  world 

has  heard. 
As  the  Kaw  runs  to  the   Missouri,  the   Missouri 

runs  on  to  the  sea 
And  their  waters  in  misty  beauty  fall  back  from  the 

clouds  on  thee, 
So  the  winds  from  the  corners  of  heaven  bring  back 

thy  message  to  thee. 

Out  on  the  desolate  highway  that  led  to  the  Span 
iards'  land 

Went  the  unknown  trader  and  trapper  o'er  the  cac 
tus-fringed  path  of  sand, 

Where  these  wardens  of  commerce  went  building  the 
trail  down  to  old  Santa  Fe, 

With  unmarked  graves  for  their  milestones  over 
stretches  of  wilderness  gray, 


152 


Where  the  Pawnee  Rock  stood,   a   fortress,  grim 

citadel  of  the  Plains, 
Where  the  blood  of  Comanche  victims  the  Cimarron 

desert  stains  — 
The  Kaw  has  told  the  Missouri,  the  Missouri  has  told 

the  sea, 
And  the  iron-clad  engines  of  traffic  today  bring  their 

treasures  to  thee 
From  the  Lakes  to  where  the  Sierras  dip  down  to 

the  sunset  sea. 

Fertile  and  fair  lay  thy  prairies,  awaiting  a  pioneer's 

hand 
Sheltered  by  cottonwood  branches,  the  brave  little 

cabin  home  stands 
Where  the  staunch-hearted  lover  of  freedom  in  an 

unequaled  terrible  fight, 
With  the  ruffian  from  over  the  Border  has  made  his 

last  stand  for  the  Right, 
'Til  defenseless  he  falls  like  a  martyr  in  the  wrath 

of  the  torch's  red  glare  — 
Is  there  no  voice  to  tell  of  this  hero,  no  ear  that  will 

list  to  a  prayer? 
Yes.'  The  Kaw  has  told  the  Missouri,  the  Missouri 

has  told  the  sea, 
And  the  roar  of  a  thousand  cannons  on  battlefields 

thunder  thy  plea, 
From  that  deed  by  the  darkness  enshrouded  comes 

the  sunburst  of  liberty. 


153 


SUNFLOWERS 


Here  in  the  "  short  grass  "  country  with  distances 

dreamy  and  wide 
The  sturdy  young  claim-holder  builded  a  sod-covered 

house  for  his  bride. 
Though  the  Cheyenne  put  on  his  .war-bonnet  and 

went  forth  by  bands  to  destroy 
Though  the  drouth  and  the  locust  and  cyclone  joined 

hands  in  a  force  to  annoy 
He  planted  his  grain  by  all  waters,  his  service  can 

never  be  told 
And  the  seed  that  fell  by  the  wayside  has  brought 

forth  a  hundred  fold. 
JFor  the  Kaw  has  told  the  Missouri,  the  Missouri  has 

told  the  sea, 
And  food  for  the  starving  millions,  thy  broad-acred 

bounty  shall  be 
The  toil  begun  at  the  "  grass  roots,"  brings  riches 

and  honor  to  Thee. 

Broad  are  thy  skies,  over-arching,  and  fair  is  thy 
land  to  behold 

Thy  schools  are  the  pride  of  thy  people,  thy  churches 
are  manifold. 

In  the  veins  of  thy  sons,  strong  and  noble,  is  the  blood 
of  a  pioneer  line 

And  the  demon  they  fight  on  thy  border  is  the  demon 
that  lurks  in  red  wine. 

And  patiently  still  wait  thy  daughters,  their  God- 
given  rights  to  possess 


154 


SUNFLOWERS 


When  a  citizenship  universal  thy  brow  with  new 

laurel  shall  dress 
The  Kaw  will  tell  the  Missouri,  the  Missouri  will  tell 

the  sea, 
And  the  power  that  uplifts  a  nation,  the  leaven  of 

history 
Through  a  whispered  word  on  the  prairie  will  shout 

from  the  skies  to  thee. 

The  prophet,  Ezekiel,  has  written  that  fronting  to 
Eastward  stands 

A  house,   from  under  whose  threshold  the  waters 
pour,  healing  all  lands. 

The  fishermen  of  Engedi  spread  their  nets  and  re 
joice  day  by  day, 

The  trees  on  its  banks  never  wither,  the  deserts  with 
blossoms  are  gay. 

And  so  may  we  write  of  this  Kansas,  a  house  front 
ing  still  to  the  sun, 

So  long  as  its  sons  and  its  daughters  shall  do  as  their 
fathers  have  done 

While  the  Kaw  runs  to  the  Missouri,  the  Missouri 
runs  on  to  the  sea, 

The  throb  of  the  blossom-starred  prairies,  the  pulse 
of  the  world  shall  be, 

And  the  limit  no  man  shall  measure,  for  the  end  is 
Eternity. 

Margaret  Hill  McCarter 


155 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  University  of  Kansas 


They  have  throned  her  upon  a  hill-top,  mother  and 

queen  in  one, 

Bride  of  the  skies  at  midnight,  sister  of  the  sun; 
Crowned  with  the  glory  of  wisdom,  garlanded  with 

light, 
With  the  stars  in  her  shadowy  tresses  when   she 

sleeps  in  the  arms  of  night, 
With  the  stars  in  her  shadowy  tresses,  and  a  million 

lamps  that  gem 
The  undulant  lines  of  her  body  to  the  fringe  of  her 

garment  hem. 

To  her  feet  from  the  far-flung  prairie  her  loving 
subjects  press, 

Sprung  from  the  sun-browned  heroes  who  peopled 
a  wilderness; 

Lads  on  whose  hearts  are  graven  epics  of  toil 
unsung. 

Bolder  than  olden  story  boasted  in  golden  tongue  — 

Bolder  than  knights  of  Arthur,  braver  than  Charle 
magne, 

The  patient  unchronicled  warriors  whose  plowshare 
conquered  the  plain. 

Beside  them  kneel  their  sisters,  womanly,  strong 
and  true, 


156. 


SUNFLOWERS 


Their  hearts  aflame  with  a  courage  such  as  their 

mothers  knew 
When  they  watched  the  hot  winds  shrivel  the  corn 

in  the  swelling  ear, 
Yet  smiled  at  the  men  who   faltered  when  every 

smile  hid  a  tear; 
Still  smiled  when  the  tiny  invader  set  teeth  to  the 

ripening  wheat, 
And  the  face  of  the  sun  was  darkened,  and  ruin 

seemed  complete. 

They   have  throned  her   upon   a  hill-top   and  her 

scepter  sways  afar; 
The  ends  of  the  earth  acknowledge  her  wherever 

her  children  are. 
Never   in  pride  of  her  glory  may  those  she  has 

nourished  forget 
That  not  on  the  purple  dais  is  her  throne  of  dominion 

set. 
Not  on  the  purple  dais  —  May  the  sons  of  those 

pioneers 
Stand  strong  by  their  father's  struggle  and  clean 

by  their  mother's  tears. 

Willard  Wattles 


Kansas,  mother  of  us  all, 
Bosomed-deep,  imperial, 
Queen  of  states  with  dusty  feet 
Glowing  through  the  ripening  wheat; 
Crowned  with  cloud,  and  amply  free 
In  large  motioned  majesty; 
Sky  and  prairie,  circling  plain, 
Take  us  to  thy  breast  again. 

We,  thy  sons,  have  strengthened  thews, 
Fed  on  manna  of  thy  dews, 
And  have  laid  our  heads  to  rest 
On  thy  slowly  heaving  breast, 
Felt  the  vast  tide  of  thy  heart 
All  its  silent  peace  impart 
Mother,  we,  the  kernelled  grain, 
In  thy  bosom  sink  again. 

We,  thy  daughters,  lithe  and  tall, 
Follow  when  our  brothers  call ; 
Eyes  that  see  the  right  to  do, 
Hand  to  hold  the  rudder  true, 
Lip  to  set  the  seal  of  love 
On  thy  sons  who  worthy  prove. 
Give  us  strength  to  bear  thy  pain, 
Folded  to  thy  side  again. 


158 


SUNFLOWERS 


Over  all  the  stubbled  plain 
Stretch  low  tents  of  yellow  grain, 
Rakish  bumble-bees  have  wheeled, 
Looting  the  alfalfa  field; 
And  long  lances  of  the  corn 
Storm  the  ramparts  of  the  morn. 
Lo,  the  sword  that  knows  no  stain 
In  a  plough-share  melts  again. 

Kansas,  mother,  what  shall  be 

Guerdon  fitting  unto  thee, 

Who  have  bent  and  lifted  up 

To  our  lips  a  brimming  cup? 

We,  thy  children,  dedicate 

All  our  lives  to  make  thee  great. 

Strength  and  sinew,  heart  and  brain  — 

Lull  at  night  to  sleep  again ! 

Willard  Wattles 


159 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  Prairie-Sleeper 


I  have  so  many  friends.    God  sends  them  to  me 

As  freely  as  He  sends  the  sun  or  rain. 
The  very  winds  of  Heaven  seem  to  woo  me 

With  all  their  wild,  sweet  ecstacy  of  pain. 
The  silent  stars  of  Heaven  stoop  unto  me 

And  with  their  fellowship  my  strength  is  slain 
As  I  lie  out  beneath  the  skies  that  dew  me 

All  night  upon  the  wind-swept  Kansas  plain, 
Till  all  the  comradeship  of  earth  ebbs  through  me 

Like  surge  of  tide  upon  the  restless  main. 

A  thousand  voices  of  the  crickets  cry  me 

Quaint  serenades  that  are  unheard  by  day; 
The  wind  comes  by  on  tip-toe,  seems  to  try  me, 

Touching  with  cooling  finger-tips  that  stray 
Along  my  body  to  my  bosom  shyly, 

Then,  like  a  startled  maiden,  slips  away, 
Brushing  my  flushed  cheeks  as  she  scampers  by  me 

With  musty  fragrance  from  a  heavy  spray 
Of  goldenrod  that  drowsily  nods  nigh  me  — 

Sweet  wind  that  loves  me  far  too  well  to  stay. 

Above,  the  stars  across  the  empty  spaces 
Fling  clustered  silver  diadems  of  light; 

Like  queen  who  on  her  lover's  forehead  places 
Her  coronal,  so  kings  me  now  the  Night, 


160 


SUNFLOWERS 


And  I  forget  my  hopes  and  my  disgraces 
In  my  new  wonder  at  such  vast  delight; 

Until,  from  deeps  beyond  star-deeps,  there  races 
Her  fire-haired  messenger  enrobed  in  white 

And  'round  each  circling  sun  the  friendly  faces 
Of  God's  far  universe  burst  into  sight. 

Lord  of  the  Night  and  all  her  beauty's  splendor, 

Pillowed  upon  her  warm,  sweet-scented  breast, 
Prairie  and  starlight,  ecstacies  unkenned  or 

Dared  in  dreaming  while  as  yet  unguessed, 
Can  she  so  shake  a  form  so  boyish-slender 

With  quenchless  longings  for  the  unpossessed, 
How  lavish  would  be  Love,  the  reckless  spender 

Of  hoardings  minted  in  such  sweet  unrest? 
The  love  of  God  is  not  more  strong  and  tender 
•    Than  these  wind-kisses  on  my  eyelids  pressed. 

Friend  with  the  night,  the  wind,  the  stars,  the  prairie, 

I  lie  out-flung  on  her  deep-rooted  sod ; 
The  crickets  chant  their  anthem,  and  the  very 

Loneliness  is  eloquent  of  God. 
The  wind  slips  by  me  like  a  frightened  fairy 

And  nestles  in  a  tuft  of  goldenrod; 
The  primroses  their  dew-filled  censers  carry 

Along  the  grass-aisles  where  they  drowse  and 

nod 
And  swing  them  ever  slower,  till  a  hairy 

Indignant  bee-priest  rattles  a  milkweed  pod. 


161 


SUNFLOWERS 


I  know  that  in  the  crowding  world  behind  me 

Where'er  I  turn  I  touch  a  friendly  hand, 
Frank  eyes,  and  strong,  clean  faces  are  inclined  me 

And  I  behold  their  smile  and  understand. 
But  now,  tonight,  no  phantom  fetters  bind  me, 

No  unbeliefs  the  faithless  world  has  planned; 
If  men  would  love  me,  they  must  come  and  find  me, 

Strange  travelers  from  some  far  distant  strand, 
For  now,  tonight,  no  human  cinctures  blind  me 

And  Love  lays  bare  His  mysteries  unscanned. 

Willard  Wattles 


162 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  Gates  Ajar 

I  have  seen  a  Kansas  sunset  like  a  vision  in  a  dream, 
When  a  halo  was  about  me  and  a  glory  on  the 

stream ; 
When  the  birds  had  ceased  their  music  and  the 

summer  day  was  done, 
And  prismatic  exhalations  came  a-drifting  from  the 

sun; 
And  those  gold  and  purple  vapors,  and  the  holy 

stillness  there 
Lay  upon  the  peaceful  valley  like  a  silent  evening 

prayer. 
And  I've  gazed  upon  that  atmospheric  splendor  of 

the  West 
Till  it  seemed  to  me  a  gateway  to  the  regions  of  the 

blest. 

I  have  seen  a  Kansas  sunrise  like  the  waking  of  a 

dream, 
When  every  dewy  blade  of  grass   caught  up  the 

golden  gleam; 
When  every  bird  renewed  the  song  he  sang  the  night 

before, 
And  all  the  silent,  slumbering  world  returned  to  life 

once  more; 
When  every  burst  of  radiance  called  up  a  throng  of 

life, 


163 


SUNFLOWERS 


And  all  the  living,  waking  world  with  melody  was 

rife. 
And  as  that  flood  of  life  and  song  came  floating 

down  the  plain, 
It  seemed  to  me  those  golden  gates  were  opened 

wide  again. 

Albert  Bigelow  Paine 


Tescott 


Somewhere  out  West  there  lies  a  sloping  plam 
That  looks  across  the  winding  river-track 
A  mile  away  to  northward,  bluish-black 

With  elm  and  cottonwood,  then  up  again 

Rises  to  meet  the  distant  sky.    Green  grain 

And  greener  grass  in  spring;  in  fall,  wheat 

stack 

And  pink-brown  prairie  grass,  stock  at  the 
rack, 

And  marvels  of  sky  this  landscape  doth  contain. 

Here  was  my  dear  one  born  and  passed  her  days, 
Familiar  with  each  bird  and  flower  and  tree, 

Light-hearted,  supple-thewed,  a  boy  in  ways, 

Knew  nature,  music,  books,  but  knew  not  me. 

How  beautiful  her  youth !  yet  I  confess 

The  memory  breeds  in  me  strange  loneliness. 

William  Herbert  Carruth 


164 


The  Sensitive  Brier* 


When  sweetly  breathed  the  budded  rose 
In  new-made  majesty  and  grace, 
Did  not  the  Master  for  a  space 

A  holy  stillness  interpose  — 

Forbidding  any  wind  to  brush 

Her  clasping  petals?    .    .     Ere  they  stirred 

While  yet  her  whispered  name,  half-heard, 
Sank  silenced  in  that  heavenly  hush, 

Did  He  not  turn  to  fashion  thee, 

O  babe-like  flower !  and  smile  to  see  — 

Deep-musing  on  the  Christ  to  be? 

II 

Pales  in  thy  woof  th.e  rainbow's  red ; 

Her  gold  adorns  the  raveled  veils 

Where-through  thy  blessed  breath  exhales ; 
Her  lucid  dews  are  on  thee  shed. 

So  sweet!   So  sweet!  —  The  beds  of  spice 
Whereon  our  fair,  first  mother  slept, 
No  daintier  drops  of  honey  kept 

To  feed  the  bees  of  Paradise. 
Lo,  where  thy  shrinking  leaves  retreat 
At  coming  of  the  sinner's  feet! 
Yet  will  thy  soft  forgiving  greet. 


165 


SUNFLOWERS 


III 


Ah,  if  the  Lowly  One  might  pass 
And  yonder  blowing  roses  all 
Their  fragrant  loveliness  let  fall 

To  cushion  smooth  the  thickening  grass, 
How  would  I  haste  thyself  to  choose 

From  all  the  pure !    And  lifting  high 

These  most  abundant  blossoms,  sigh: 
"  Thou  who  canst  virtue  give  nor  lose, 
With  whom  the  burdened  ones  find  rest  — 
The  while  I  touch  thy  seamless  vest, 

Gaze  but  on  these  and  I  am  blest ! " 

Amanda  T.  Jones 


*  A  procumbent  perennial,  American  genus  Schrankia,  found 
on  the  rolling  prairies  of  Kansas  and  other  south-eastern  states. 
Because  of  the  exceeding  loveliness  and  unsurpassable  fragrance 
of  its  flowers,  it  is  popularly  known  as  The  Sensitive  Rose. 


166 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  Prairie  Wind 


Dim  in  the  dawn  of  the  centuries,  born  of  the  Prairie 

and  Sun, 
Brother  of  tempest  and  sunshine,  swift  on  the  sandals 

of  air, 
Laughing,  I  race  with  the  shadows  that  chase 

o'er  the  infinite  plain, 

Thrilling  with  passionate  pleasure  and  pain ; 
As    the    wind-blossoms    shatter    and    scatter    their 

delicate  petals  of  white 
On  the  grass  as  I  pass  with  a  near-imperceptible 

tread, 
With  a  rustle  as  slight  as  the  whisper  of  night 

To  the  tremulous  stars  overhead; 
So,  pulsing  with  light,  aglow  with  the  rapture  of 

flight, 

Under  the  glorious  heavens  I  love 
Where  the  ponderous  thunder-heads  rumble 

above, 
I  leap  in  the  gladness  and  strength  of  a  life  without 

limit  of  length, 
And  laugh  as  I  run  on  my  way  to  the  sun. 

Ah,  prairies  of  Kansas,  craving  the  vast,  far  reach 
of  the  sky, 

Astir  with  wind-longings,  aquiver,  afire  with  yearn 
ings  and  deathless  desire, 


167 


SUNFLOWERS 


Passionate-leaning  along  the  horizon  bar  in 

the  shimmering  heat, 

Where  the  lips  of  warm  lovers  meet  and  press 
In  a  region  of  dreams,  so  it  seems,  with  an 

infinite  tenderness. 
Still  when  the  luminous  star  of  the  West  is  alight 

on  the  breast  of  the  night, 
Wilt  thou  greet  with  as  constant  caress,  with  the 

ardor  of -noon, 
Those  death-pallid  lips,  dimly  white  in  the  indistinct 

light  of  the  moon? 
Hearken,  ye  dreamers  that  dwell  in  the  cell  of  a 

ripening  milkweed  pod, 
The  burly  thistle  is  white  as  snow,  and  the 

crimson  cactus-plant  aglow, 
While  the  glorious  goldenrod 
Shelters  the  lumbering  bumble-bee  as  the  murmurous 

breezes  drowsily 

Drone  him  slumberously  to  rest  in  the  musty  fra 
grance  of  her  breast  — 
Come  forth  on  fairy,  ephemeral  wings  to  the  golden 

earth  and  the  azure  deep, 
Upward  the  wild  wind-currents  sweep,  vir 
ginal,  entire, 

Sweet  with  a  prairie  purity,  to  the  purging  passion 
of  the  sun  and  perfected  desire. 

The  frail  wild  hyacinths  shudder  to  feel  my  sinewy 
finger-tips  circle  their  stems, 


168 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  haughtiest  brook-grasses  waver  and  reel  and 

loosen  their  dusty  pollen  gems, 
Rich  treasure  of  fragrant  prairie  kind  they  cast  in 

the  pouch  of  the  flying  wind; 
The  gold  I  filch  from  the  sunflower  crown,  and  bend 

the  sturdiest  ragweed  down ; 
I   tease  the   delicate   sensitive-rose  till   all   of  her 

slender  tendrils  close 
And  the  exquisite  pink-veined  stamens  shrink  in  pain 

of  the  boisterous  wind  that  blows. 
The  purple  plume  of  the  buffalo-pea  trembles   in 

dreamy  ecstasy ; 
And  the  fragile  primrose,  creamy  white,  bathes  in 

the  lucent  floods  of  light; 
While  the  scarlet  mallow  spreads  her  cup  to  gather 

the  golden  globules  up; 
And  the  star-grass  spangles  the  sod. 

The  yellow  grain  in  the  waving  plain  a  molten  ocean 

rolls; 
Cloud  billows  fleet  with  dusky  feet  over  the  golden 

heads  of  wheat; 
Wind-ruffled  corn  blades  flap  and  sigh,  and  lift  their 

cool  green  standards  high, 
Electric  to  the  sun  and  sky. 

Many  a  shy-hid  russet  bird  with  wild  wind-longings 

dumbly  stirred 
From  his  lowly  nest  on  the  homely  ground,  startles 

the  silence  into  sound. 


169 


Wee,  quavering  cricket  voices  shrill,  and  thrushes' 

songs  that  throb  until 
Sweet-aching  wonder  strikes  them  still, 
Mingle  and  float  and  fade  and  die  in  the  vast,  wide 

arches  of  the  sky; 
Hushed   reverence   of   solemn   prayer   hallows  the 

prairie  everywhere; 
Cloud  altars  glow,  while  to  and  fro  the  wild-rose 

censers  fragrant  blow. 

The  mottled  bull-snake  glides  between  low  Gothic 
aisles  of  living  green, 

Light-flickering  shadows  fret  his  back  with  change 
ful  sheen  of  gold  and  black ; 

The  brooding  dove  on  her  eggs  of  white  thrills  with 
a  dumb  maternal  fright, 

And  closer  crouches,  lustrous-eyed,  in  the  merciful 
dusk  where  the  shadow's  hide. 

Slight,  fragile,  long-antennaed  things  with  gossamer 

and  emerald  wings, 
Querulous  teem  in  the  matted  grass  as  the  slender 

ant  processions  pass, 
Each  thrifty  toiler  swart  and  brown  beneath  his 

burden  of  thistle-down. 
In  dim  secluded  galleries  the  ravenous  spider  his 

shuttle  plies, 
With  swift  and  sure  precision  weaves  a  silver  web 

in  the  shining  leaves, 
Spinning  death  from  a  poison  heart. 


170 


Afar, apart, 

Lone  in  the  violet  vault  of  the  sky,  with  a  steady 

wing  and  a  watchful  eye, 
The  silent  buzzards  fly. 

The  saucy  brown  gopher's  prying  snout  noses  the 

tumble-weed  about; 
The  stiff  little  prairie-dog  warily  watches  the  radiant 

summer  sky, 
Till  a  sudden  shadow,   swooping  fell,  arouses  the 

vigilant  sentinel; 
At  the  warning  chipper  of  his  alarm  the  little  gray 

townsmen  scurry  from  harm, 
And  the  angry  hawk,  with  his  swoop  in  vain,  mounts 

in  the  dusk  to  his  post  again. 

Soft-footedly  the  Twilight  steals   with   its  blessed 

benison  of  rest 

Up  the  long  vistas  of  the  West, 
The  slow  sun  sinks  to  the  level  rim  of  the  prairie 

ocean,  cold  and  dim ; 
The  earliest  moon  crescent,  thin  and  slim,  pale 

in  her  bridal  garments  white, 
Follows  after  —  and  it  is  night. 
Soft-shrouding  shadows  darken  all  the  prairie  in  a 

sombre  pall; 

Star-eddies  rise  where  the  star-dust  lies  in  the  wind 
ing  highway  of  the  skies; 

Pale,  phosphorescent  fire-flies  glow;  and  plaintive 
murmurings  are  heard, 


171 


SUNFLOWERS 


Sleep-wrested  from  a  drowsy  bird. 
The  white  moth  fondles  the  yucca  bloom 
Wan  gleaming  through  the  ghostly  light  her  spectral 

wings ; 
Weird  wailing  through  the  midnight  gloom,  with 

haunting  minor  quaverings 
The  coyote  cries  forebodingly  as  some  lone 
phantom  from  a  tomb. 

The  planets  swing  in  a  deathless  ring,  serene  and 

clear ; 
Sure-piloted  the   meteors   steer  through  the 

thin,  translucent  atmosphere, 
And  every  dusky  satellite  safe  voyages  the  sea 

of  Night. 
In  the  prairie-grasses  the  mother  dove  broods  on  her 

nest  with  a  constant  love, 
While  the   sensitive-rose  leaves   delicate   spread   a 

thicker  shadow  around  her  head; 
Shrouding  Creation  from  pole  to  pole,  stretches  the 

infinite  Over-Soul, 
And   the  world-wind  yearns  unsatisfied,   from  the 

Thing  Possessed  to  the  Thing  Denied  — 
But  the  merciful,  sheltering  Wings  abide. 

Wind  of  the  Prairie,  blowing  free, 
Wind  of  the  Prairie,  blow  for  me  — 
With  shining  feet  o'er  the  golden  wheat, 
Where  the  green  corn  blades  in  the  summer  heat 


172 


SUNFLOWERS 


Whisper  and  sigh  as  you  rustle  by, 

Blow  with  impalpable  fragrancy 

The  little  white  cloud  from  the  infinite  sky, 
And  my  heart  all  clean  and  sweet. 

Wind  of  the  Spirit,  blowing  free, 
Wind  of  the  Spirit,  blow  for  me  — 

On  wings  afire  with  subtle  desire 
Lift  the  lily  soul  from  the  crumbling  mire, 
And  higher,  higher,  and  ever  higher  than  the  noisy 

mart  and  the  slender  spire, 
Blow  through  unspeakable  azure  deeps,  through  the 

silver  lane  where  the  comet  leaps, 
By  the  molten  moon,  up  the  starry  steeps, 
Those  white  soul  blossoms  through  the  night, 
In  scarce-heard  music  out  of  sight. 

Willard  Wattles 


173 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  Prairie 

A  world,  wide,  wide; 

Hours,  long,  and  slow ; 
High  grass,  brown,  dead; 
Hills,  dim  and  low; 

A  sky,  blue,  blue; 

A  hawk,  high,  lone; 
A  blazing  sun, 

To  clouds,  unknown ; 

A  bird,  small,  small, 

And  timid  and  gay ; 
A  cactus  bloom; 

A  coyote  at  play; 

A  wind,  wild,  wild; 

A  tree,  dim,  far, 
On  a  bluff,  red,  steep; 

Twilight  —  a  star ; 

A  moon,  gold,  gold; 

Silence,  deep,  deep; 
Magic,  mystery, 

Night  —  and  sleep. 

Dorothy  Station 


174 


SUNFLOWERS 


Corn 


Everywhere,  spicy  air, 
Ditches  dry  and  meadows  bare. 
And  sailing  high  with  honking  cry,  , 
The  ducks  go  tracking  down  the  sky. 

We  hear  the  pipe  of  quail  and  snipe, 
And  paw-paw  and  persimmons  ripe, 
The  loaded  wains  with  creaking  chains 
Go  rolling  down  the  country  lanes. 

The  blackbirds  talk  in  raucous  squawk, 
And  hop  from  spray  and  mullen-stalk ; 
The  huskers*  shout  has  put  to  rout 
The  hungry  crows  that  hung  about. 

With  ragged  plumes  and  garments  torn, 
There  stands  the  army  of  the  corn, 
But  victor  chariot  wheels  have  passed 
Above  the  reeling  ranks  at  last. 


II 


The  kingly  corn  on  dale  and  swell, 
The  Kansas  corn  I  love  so  well  — 


175 


\ 
If  I  could  tell  its  wonder  tale, 

Could  sing  the  epic  of  the  corn, 
The  scythe  of  time  could  not  avail, 
Nor  Death  that  beats  us  with  his  flail, 
Could  husk  the  kernels  of  my  fame 

From  fruited  hearts  as  yet  unborn  — 
If  I  could  tell  the  wonder  tale, 

And  sing  the  epic  of  the  corn. 


Ill 


Around  the  dream-encrusted  maize 
The  tendrils  of  my  heart  entwine, 

As  dew-kissed  morning-glories  raise 

Their  eyes  that  in  the  corn  rows  shine ; 
The  clinging  morning-glory's  vine, 

That  like  a  gentlewoman  sweet 

With  soft  caress  of  love  divine, 
Doth  let  her  dimpled  arms  entwine 

Her  champion  —  sitting  at  her  feet. 

I  cannot  tell  how  much  they  mean, 
The  morning-glory's  tendrils  green 

That  kiss,  caress  and  closely  grasp 
Their  towering  lord  of  waxy  sheen, 
An  Indian  monarch,  by  his  queen 

Held  gently  in  an  amorous  clasp; 
A  monarch  and  his  lovely  queen 
That  ne'er  a  shadow  falls  between. 


176 


Not  closer  does  the  flower  twine, 

Not  closer  do  its  tendrils  dart, 
Than  dings  this  dreaming  heart  of  mine, 

Than  twine  the  tendrils  of  my  heart. 
From  furrows  cut  through  prairie  grass 

The  startled  wild  owl  rose  and  flew ; 
The  prairie-dog  blinked  to  see  them  pass, 

And  over  his  roof-tree  the  sod  com  grew. 

The  startled  hiss  of  the  rattlesnake 

Was  music  strange  to  my  baby  ears, 

As  I  watched  the  toiling  of  "  Bill "  and  "  Jake," 
The^stupid,  lumbering  yoke  of  steers. 

And  the  cracking  lash  was  a  lilting  song, 
With  a  slow,  monotonous,  dull  refrain 

Which  told  of  a  nation,  young  and  strong, 
Come  out  to  conquer  the  desert  plain. 

A  great  migration  that  moved  along 
Into  the  desert  that  else  had  lain 
As  it  first  was  dreamed  in  the  Maker's 
brain, 

When  the  planets  chorused  their  morning  song. 


IV 


The  glowing  coals  of  memory,  they  flicker  up  and 

start 
A  thousand  ghosts  a-walking  in  the  chatnbers  of  my 

heart. 


177 


SUNFLOWERS 


Again  I  see  the  prairie  home,  the  snow  storm  drifting 
high, 

And  the  little  children  gazing  through  the  dugout's 
battered  eye. 

A  sod  house  in  the  winter  'neath  the  blizzard's  howl 
ing  din, 

With  famine  stalking  'round  us  and  the  lean  wolf 
looking  in. 

That  night  within  the  sod  house  home  a  tragedy  was 

seen, 
A  little  soul  came  in  and  went  like  firelight  on  a 

screen. 
The  tired  children  lay  and  slept  within  a  trundle 

bed, 
And  did  not  hear  the  angel's  wings  that  fluttered 

overhead. 

Upon  her  bed  of  prairie  grass  a  mother  lay  in  pain, 
A  little  soul  came  in  the  room  and  winged  its  flight 

.      again. 
And  all  night  by  the  smoking  lamp  a  father  knelt  and 

wept, 
And  folded  in  a  cotton  quilt  the  little  body  slept. 

"  Take  me  back  to  Indiana,"  was  the  woman's  plain 
tive  moan. 

The  words  fell  on  his  anguished  heart  and  crushed  it 
like  a  stone ; 

The  lean  and  wolfish  desert,  it  had  gulped  them  in  its 
maw, 


178 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  driveling,  red  gummed  famine  how  it  ground 
them  in  its  jaw. 

The  god  of  Indiana,  where  the  waving  Wabash  flows, 

Rode  not  the  saw-edged  shrieking  gales  amid  the 
Kansas  snows. 

The  heaven  they  praised  in  fairer  lands,  in  fairer 
days  gone  by, 

Gleamed  not  above  this  dugout  in  this  winter-cur 
dled  sky  — 

With  that  stricken  mother  weeping  for  her  girlhood 
home  afar 

Where  the  red  hearth  fires  were  burning  underneath 
a  kinder  star. 

It  is  morning  on  the  prairie, 

And  beneath  the  frozen  snows 

The  father  lays  his  baby 

In  its  tiny  swaddling-clothes, 

With  no  board  to  form  a  coffin 
For  the  little  one's  repose. 


The  years  have  in -their  cycle  turned 

With  vast,  unceasing  tread, 
The  fires  of  grief  that  hissed  and  burned 

Lie  in  their  ashes,  dead. 
Again  it  is  the  harvest  morn, 
With  long  green  rows  of  standing  corn. 


179 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  long  green  rows  of  standing  corn, 

Their  leaves  in  quiet  set; 
The  beaded  grass  of  dewy  morn, 

The  yellow  tassels  wet, 
A  cobweb  jeweled  with  a  pearl, 
The  sweet  face  of  a  country  girl. 

The  long  green  rows  of  kingly  corn, 
And  love's  enchanted  dream ; 

And  tedded  grass  and  prickly  thorn, 
How  sweet  doth  labor  seem! 

For  down  the  bladed  rows  I  see 

The  laughing  lips  that  long  for  me 

The  silken  plumage  of  the  corn 

Is  but  her  waving  hair; 
The  morning-glory's  purple  horn 

That  twinkles  in  the  air 
,     Is  like  her  limpid,  laughing  eyes 
That  lure  me  on  to  paradise. 

/ 
VI 

When  the  cotton  clouds  drift  over  after  rain, 
And  the  floods  have  eased  the  arid  earth  of  pain, 
And  in  the  meadow's  grassy  swale, 
A  thousand  frogs  are  croaking, 
And  this  the  burden  of  their  tale : 

"  The  land  enjoyed  the  soaking !  " 


180 


SUNFLOWERS 


Then  my  spirits  soar  as  high 
As  those  fleeces  in  the  sky 

That   go   sailing,   sailing   sailing   when   the    rain's 
gone  by. 

When  the  thirsty  corn  has  drunk  its  fill  of  rain, 
Then  the  heart  of  every  man  is  glad  again ; 
And  the  blades  that  had  been  curling, 

When  the  days  of  drought  were  here, 
Are  crisping  and  unfurling 

With  the  old-time  hope  and  cheer. 
Then  I  gaze  into  the  sky 
At  the  fleeces  riding  high, 

That  go   sailing,   sailing,   sailing   when   the   rain's 
gone  by. 

VII 

Corn  shuck  and  corn  stalk.    Plenty  in  the  land. 
Country  men  and  country  maids  going  to  the 

dance ; 

Henry  Boggs  guessing  hogs.    Country  sport  is  grand ! 
Me  •  a-courting   Mary  with   a   shy   and   honied 

glance. 
Yellow  ears  are  for  the  steers,  and  'the  grunting 

swine, 

Smell  of  coffee  on  the  air  and  bacon  in  the  pan, 
Loaded  cribs  with  bulging  ribs,  country  life  is  fine 
And   Corn's    the   mighty    pillar   that    supports 
Jehovah's  plan. 


181 


VIII 
Daddy's  burning  cornstalks, 

All  the  sky  is  red ; 
All  the  little  tow-heads 

Desert  the  trundle-bed 
To  gather  at  the  window 

And  watch  the  tossing  fires, 
Reaching  toward  the  starland, 

With  their  gleaming  spires. 

They  are  pixy  armies 

Clashing  in  the  night, 
Marching,  flaming  soldiers 

To  the  fairy  fight. 
See  the  torches  dancing 

In  the  evening  chill  — 
Daddy's  burning  cornstalks 

Out  upon  the  hill. 

IX 

They  are  planting  corn  in  the  dark  brown  loam, 
And  dreaming  the  dream  of  the  harvest  home ; 
And  the  first  anemone's  azure  eye 
Has  looked  in  love  at  the  summer  sky. 

They  are  planting  the  corn  and  the  earth  lies  brown 
Underneath  the  planters,  sailing  up  and  down, 
With  blackbirds  fluttering  in  their  lee 
Like  ships  and  gulls  on  an  ebon  sea. 


182 


X 

The  days  of  youth  are  golden;  Oh,  doubly  so  were 

mine. 
The  morning  was  a  conjurer,  the  night  was  mellow 

wine.  . .  t 

The  days  of  youth  are  holy,  for  they  thrilled  with 

hope  divine. 

I  toiled  amid  the  cornfields,  on  hill  and  dewy  dell ; 
The  voices  of  the  corn  leaves,  they  wove  a  faerie 

spell ; 
I  heard  the  living  whisper  of  her  I  loved  so  well. 

A  hundred  wild  emprises  within  my  heart  were  born ; 
I  was  a  mighty  emperor,  my  soldiers  were  the  corn; 
My  herald  blew  a  signal  blast  —  upon  the  dinner 
horn. 

But  time  has  wrecked  my  empire,  my  people  all  are 

slain ; 
Ah,  vanished  boyhood  yearnings  and  dreams  that 

died  in  vain. 
Like  broken   cornstalks  blowing  about  the  wintry 

plain. 

XI 

Cutting  weeds  in  August  days 
'Neath  the  sun's  relentless  rays, 
Through  the  corn's  unending  rows, 
Where  the  buffalo  briar  grows, 


183 


SUNFLOWERS 


Where  the  red-winged  hopper  sings 
To  his  friend  with  yellow  wings, 
Chopping  down  the  cockle-burrs, 
Where  the  hopper  leaps  and  whirrs. 

Oh,  to  bathe  my  burning  face 

At  the  mossy  watering-place; 

Wash  my  eyes  that  smart  and  sting 

In  the  waters  of  the  spring 

Bursting  from  its  stony  grot 

And  trickling  through  the  pasture  lot, 

Through  the  frog-befuddled  pond, 

Through  the  broken  dam  beyond, 

On  and  on  adown  the  draw, 

Through  thickets  green  of  plum  and  haw; 

With  liquid  tones  among  the  stones 

As  white  as  ancient  battle  bones; 

Still  winding  down  the  grassy  glen 

Through  shadows,  in  and  out  again, 

Till  'midst  the  scrub  and  alders  thick, 

It  tumbles  into  Shallow  creek. 

How  my  youthful,  fevered  dream 
Sails  upon  that  pigmy  stream, 
Drifts  and  sails  abroad,  afar 
Past  the  pasture's  wooden  bar 
Where  the  waxen  sumachs  gleam, 
Guide  posts  on  the  path  o'  dream, 
Past  the  sunset's  yellow  sea, 
Past  the  weary  things  that  be, 

1ST 


SUNFLOWERS 


To  the  land  of  We  Shall  See, 
Where  my  Princess  waits  for  me! 

XII 

A  blight  is  on  the  elderblooms;  the  leaves  are  gray 

with  dust; 
The  willows  droop  their  silver  plumes ;  the  weeds  are 

red  with  rust. 
Where  once  the  brook  went  flowing,  under  elm  and 

..  plum, 
Are  thirsty  cattle  lowing  — 

Drought  has  come! 

•  King  Drought  is  on  the  clover  land ;  the  cringing 

corn  is  curled; 

Death  is  blowing  overland ;  doom  is  on  the  world. 
The  sky  a  brassy  canopy;  the  brown  turf  charred; 
Famine  in  full  panoply  — 

The  Drought  King's  Guard ! 

Where  late  the  grass  was  blooming,  loud  the  locust 

hums; 
Their   tom-toms   are   booming;    the   King's    Court 

comes. 

Heat  Wave  and  Dust  Swirl,  his  courtiers  advance; 
The  Whirlwind  his  nautch  girl 
In  a  winding  dance ! 

The  south  wind  his  trumpet,  frighting  with  its  cries ; 
The  Whirlwind  his  strumpet,  to  lure  his  wanton  eyes. 


SUNFLOWERS 


His  hosts  tramp  the  clover  sward,  in  their  mirth' 

obscene ; 
Death  is  his  overlord ; 

Famine  his  queen ! 

XIII 

Under  the  tufted  prairie  sod  they  laid  the  pioneer; 
Under  the  glowing  golden  rod  and  the  grasses  he 
held  dear. 

The  funeral  candle  lit  for  him 

In  his  mortuary  chamber  dim, 

Was  the  helianthus'  flaming  rim ; 

And  the  night  hawk  sang  his  requiem. 

The  night  hawk  sang  his  requiem  to  soothe  him 

underground ; 
The  sunflower  lifted  its  flowing  rim  above  the  little 

mound ; 

And  deep  in  the  folds  of  the  grateful  grave, 
Where  the  dreaming  dead  in  its  blisses  lave, 
He  heard  the  flutter  of  banners  brave 
Where  the  blades  of  corn  on  its  tassels  wave. 

Where  the  blades  of  corn  and  the  tassels  wave  they 

laid  the  pioneer; 
He  heard  the  flutter  of  banners  brave,  a  sound  that 

the  dead  can  hear; 

They  told  the  tale  of  his  vanished  days, 
Of  love's  first  kiss  in  the  rustling  maize, 


186 


SUNFLOWERS 


Of  her  who  followed  his  winding  ways 
From  life's  first  green  to  its  autumn  grays. 

Of  her  who  followed  his  winding  ways,  this  prophet 

of  the  corn, 
And  shared  his  triumph  of  harvest  days  and  the  rue 

and  prickly  thorn ; 
And  she  is  slumbering  close  beside 
The  lover  with  whom  she  dared  to  ride, 
From  the  far  Ohio's  dimpled  tide 
Into  the  dusty  desert  wide. 

Into  the  dusty  desert  wide  he  came,  a  pioneer, 
Leading  the  cornfield's  spreading  tide,  and  now  he's 

resting  here ; 

The  corn  he  loved  in  the  days  of  old 
Has  over  his  pillow  its  blades  unrolled, 
And  sent  its  roots  through  his  dreaming  mold, 
And  twined  them  deep  in  his  heart  of  gold. 

Under  the  tufted  prairie  sod  they  laid  the  pioneer; 
Under  the  glowing  golden  rod  and  the  grasses  he 

held  dear. 

And  the  funeral  candle  lit  for  him 
In  his  mortuary  chamber  dim, 
Was  the  helianthus'  flaming  rim; 
And  the  night  hawk  sang  his  requiem. 

C.  L.  Edson 


187 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  Harvest  Hand 


Hot,  later  June :  the  midday  sun  blazed  down 
Above  a  little  flat-roofed  Western  town, 

While,  mile  on  mile,  dappled  with  wind  and  sun, 
The  multitudinous-headed,  billowy  wheat 
'Rippled  and  shimmered  in  the  midday  heat ; 

Reapers  were  whirring;  harvest  was  begun. 

In  the  town's  park  a  vacant  bandstand  stood, 
And  round  it  lounged  a  noisy  multitude 

Of  men  drawn  thither  by  the  lure  of  wheat ; 
Some  come  for  work,  and  some  to  win  away 
At  dice  and  cards  the  others'  harvest  pay.    .    .    . 

They  filled  the  grass,  and  overflowed  the  street, 

And  still  in  dusty  flocks  they  straggled  in, 

With  luggage  or  without,  long,  short,  fat,  thin  — 

Hoboes,  and  schoolboys  looking  for  a  lark, 
And  due  for  aching  arms  and  blistered  hands  — 
They  dropped  from  puffing  trains  in  dusty  bands 

And  lit  the  river's  edge  with  fires  at  dark. 

Ice  boxes  were  depleted  of  their  store, 
Chicken  roosts  robbed,  and  every  kitchen  door 

Was  knocked  by  beggars  twenty  times  a  day; 
Tramps,  yeggs,  and  vagrants  —  every  hue  and  kind  — 
Swarmed  in,  until  the  townsmen,  of  one  mind, 

Wished  the  wheat  harvested,  and  them  away. 


188 


They   pitched   quoits   close   to   where   the   farmers 

hitched, 
And  quarreled,  cursed,  and  jested  as  they  pitched, 

And  sprawled  and  read  torn  papers  in  the  shade ; 
Gambled,  and  swapped  tales,  each  of  his  own  worth, 
And  told  how  they  had  roamed  about  the  earth,  v 

And  interchanged  the  Hobo's  stock-in-trade. 

To   them   a   farmer   came    ...    A  young   man 

played 
At  horseshoes  now,  his  open  shirt  displayed 

A  neck  turned  like  Apollo  Belvedere's; 
He  swung  upon  his  left  foot  light  and  free 
Apoise  like  cloud-descending  Mercury  — 

A  limber  college  lad  of  twenty  years. 

The  horseshoe  circled  through  the  air  and  flew 
Right  on  the  peg  —  another    .    .     .    on  it    .  /':*."*!»' 
"  Two  Ringers,"  his  partner  called.     "  We've 

got  'em  beat." 

The  player  took  his  coat  and  walked  away ; 
The  farmer  leaned  to  speak  to  him.  "  Good  day, 
Young    fellow.     Want   to   help   me   with   ray 
wheat  ?  " 

"  I  will,  if  you  can  take  my  partner  here." 
"  My  neighbor  can." 

"  How  much  ?  " 

"  Enough  —  don't  fear. 


189 


SUNFLOWERS 


Two  and  a  half  a  day  and  board." 

"  All  right" 

The  young  men  flung  their  baggage  in  the  back, 
The  farmer  gave  his  horses'  thighs  a  whack, 

And  a  thick  cloud  of  dust  hid  them  from  sight. 

Jack  rabbits  bobbed  their  long  ears  through  the  green 
Alfalfa  fields,  now  dropping  back  unseen, 

Now  rising  at  the  end  of  a  long  leap 
Like  swimmers  coming  up  through  waves  at  sea ; 
And,  rolling  far  and  wide  inimitably, 

Ran  miles  of  grain  gold-ripe  for  men  to  reap. 

And  headers  in  wide  fields  along  the  road 
With  rolling  reels  and  moving  horses  showed 

And  made  a  sleepy  sound  like  distant  rain; 
The  latticed-sloping  header-boxes  went 
Beside  them,  taking  in  the  full  tide  sent 

Upward,  of  canvas-carried  streams  of  grain. 

Four  bastioned  clouds  of  toppled  gold  and  snow 
Peered  over  the  sky's  edge;  another,  slow, 

Swam  out,  and  drew  a  continent  of  shade, 
That  lingered  after  it,  across  the  grain, 
Then  left  the  void  without  one  fleecy  stain 

To  mark  the  dome  of  quiet  blue  it  made.    .     .    . 

And  now  the  little  flat-roofed  Western  town 

Lay     mile     on     mile     behind,     and     night     came 

down.    .    .    . 
\ 


190 


SUNFLOWERS 


Across   the   prairie   lights   gleamed   here   and 

there  — 

And  now  the  horses  quickened  as  they  clomb 
The  last  rise  in  the  road,  and  were  at  home. 

Across  the  yard  a  lantern's  smoky  flare 

Lit  two  long  legs  that  scissored  through  the  gloom. 

It  was  a  farmhand  came There  was  no 

room; 

So  one  boy  slept  that  night  in  the  stifling  mow ; 
The  other  went  across  to  the  next  farm, 
While  dogs  for  miles  around  took  up  alarm,    .    .  •*, 

And  both  of  them  were  harvest  workers  now. 

The  first,  John  Anson,  lay  awake  till  morn, 
Hearing  the  horses  stir  and  munch  their  corn, 

Then  slid  into  the  flow  of  a  soft  dream, 
When,  to  the  dim  light  of  their  la'nterns*  flame, 
The  twilight-risen  harvest  workers  came, 

Each  one  to  feed  and  curry  his  own  team. 

"  Get  over,   Pete,"   and  "  Where's  my  currycomb 

gone?" 
So  (the  east  olive-gray  with  windy  dawn, 

The  gray  moon  sick  with  sunrise)    round  by 

round 
Anson  groped  down  the  ladder.    .    .    .    Someone 

beat 

Upon  a  pan.        .    .    The  men  pushed  in  to  eat, 
And  drank  their  coffee  with  a  sucking  sound. 


191 


SUNFLOWERS 


"  What's  your  name,  lad  ?  " 

"John  Anson." 

"From  the  East?" 
"Yes."    .    .    . 

For  a  moment  the  mouth-smacking  ceased, 
And  round  the  men  a  wave  of  interest  ran. 

"What!      Only    one    egg?      Best    take    three    or 

four.  .  .  ." 
"  I  have  no  appetite.  .  .  .  No,  thanks  —  no 

more.  .  .  ." 
"  You'll  have  to  eat  to  stand  the  harvest,  man." 

As  for  others    .    .    .    Any  one  would  think 
Them  Norsemen  all,  to  see  them  eat  and  drink : 

Bacon     and     eggs    'and     pancakes,     piles     of 

bread    .    .  .. 

"  Just  wait  until  the  sun  burns  over  noon ; 
Tomorrow  he  will  sing  a  different  tune 

Or  I'm  a  liar,"    big  Bill  Adams  said, 

Helping  himself  to  his  third  plate  of  eggs. 

"  Yes,  or  the  strength  will  drop  out  of  his  legs 

And  he'll  cave  in  and  go  on  back  to  town." 
With  this  they  hurried  forth  and  drove  afield 
To  gather  in  the  ripened  harvest  yield 

Where  the  hot  sun  already  sizzled  down.( 

The  hot  sun  sizzled  down,  the  sky  blazed  bare, 
A  barren  brooding  blue.    No  cloud  was  there 


192 


SUNFLOWERS 


To  trail  its  moving  shadow  o'er  the  wheat ; 
And  up  and  down  the  buzzing  reaper  went, 
Casting  its  flooding  grain-flow  upward-sent 

Into  the  latticed  header-box.    The  heat 

Sent  the  sweat  pouring  forth  in  itchy  streams. 
To  John,  the  novice,  it  already  seems 

That  he  has  worked  a  full  half -day  or  more 
Ere  a  slow  hour  has  dragged.  Straws  smite  his  ears ; 
Sweat  stings  his  eyes ;  chaff  fills  them  full  of  tears  — 

He  labors  like  a  slave  chained  to  an  oar, 

Spreading  the  heads  out  even.     At  the  stack, 
Though  straining  till  he  aches  in  all  his  back, 

Another  wagon  waits  their  place.  "  Doggone  it," 
His  driver  shouts ;  "  we're  getting  in  the  road.  .  .  .' 
How  in  the  heck  can  we  heave  off  a  load 

When  you  lift  at  each  forkful  standing  on  it? 

"  Here  —  let  me  show  you."    After  which  it  comes 
Easier  to  John,  though  his  veins  beat  like  drums 

About  his  ears.    "  Football's  an  hour  or  two, 
But  here  you're  on  the  leap  the  whole  day  long 
Not  cheered  by  schoolmates  with  a  college  song, 

And  sixteen  hours  a  day  before  you're  through." 

He  shot  a  glance  up  from  his  red-streaked  eye : 
"  Won't  the  sun  ever  mount  up  in  the  sky  ?  " 
The  brackish  water  tasted  like  rare  wine. 


193 


"  Thank  Gk)d!    At  last!" 

"  Come,  boys,"  the  farmer  said. 
John  snatched  his  straw  hat  from  his  sweat-drenched 

head. 
A  waving  apron  moved  —  the  dinner  sign.    .    .  . 

Bob  (Anson's  partner)  ran  through  the  same  mill 
On  the  next  farm,  till  he,  too,  grew  in  skill 

And  learned  endurance  of  the  heavy  grind; 
He,  too,  fought  with  their  enemy,  the  wheat, 
And  sprawled  about  the  load  on  slipping  feet, 

And  reveled  in  each  little  cooling  wind. 

That  afternoon  wore  slowly  to  an  end.    .    .    . 
Homeward  by  moonrise  men  and  horses  wend. 

John's  muscles  tremble  from  the  unused  strain 
A  fellow  quit  that  night,  and  so,  instead 
Of  the  close  mow,  he  had  a  cot  for  a  bed ; 

But  nightmares  seized  upon  his  tired  brain. 

He  thought  that  he  lay  prone  beneath  the  sky 
And  giants  heaped  wheat  on  him  mountain-high ; 

He  strove  in  vain  to  cast  the  weight  aside; 
And  if  his  legs  were  not  held  ramrod-straight 
Tense  cramps  would  come  and  seize  on  them,  nor 
bate 

Until  he  rose  and  rubbed  and  almost  cried. 

At  breakfast  the  men  held  themselves  in  wait 
Till  for  the  second  time  he  heaped  his  plate, 


194 


Then  fosth  into  unbridled  mirth  they  broke. 
"  The  kid  has  changed  his  diet  overnight." 
"  Work  always  did  improve  the  appetite." 

John  ate,  and  groaned,  and  snarled  against  their 
joke. 

So  galled  and  sore  that  he  could  hardly  walk, 
Scant  wish  had  he  to  jest  with  them  or  talk. 

He  felt  like  quitting,  swore  he  would  by  noon. 
But  soon  the  stiffness  wore  away,  and  he 
Grew  blithest  of  the  rowdy  company 

And  leaned  against  his  fork,  and  hummed  a  tune. 

And,  then,  the  farmer's  daughter,  home  again, 
Put  brightness  in  the  faces  of  the  men 

By  her  sweet  singing  presence.    She  had  been 
To  Kansas  City  visiting  a  friend.     .    .    . 
John  hoped  the  world  would  sooner  come  to  end 

Than  the  last  load  of  wheat  be  gathered  in ; 

For  she  was  like  a  cloudless  morning.    Soon 
They  sat  alone  beneath  the  mounting  moon 

Despite  the  next  day's  work  each  woke  to  do ; 
And  the  old  game  between  the  two  began 
That  has  been  played  ever  since  woman  and  man 

Lived  in  the  Garden  and  were  only  Two. 

A  whip-poor-will  sang  in  a  cottonwood  tree ; 
Far  off  another  answered  plaintively; 

A  thousand  little  night  things  woke  and  cried, 


195 


SUNFLOWERS 


And  the  wide  body  of  the  bulging  moon, 
Orbed  to  the  full  globe  of  its  plenilune, 
Upon  the  silver  elm-tops  seemed  to  ride. 

Clouds  caught,  and  broke  across  its  amber  face 
And  trailed  themselves  into  dissolving  lace.     .     .    . 

His  hand  found  hers  as  if  it  thought  and  knew : 
For  the  most  loveless  heart  in  love's  despite 
Could  scarce  resist  a  woman,  stars  and  night  — 

John  only  did  what  any  man  would  do. 

They  felt  akin.    They  loved.    Their  pulses  burned 
As  through  each  other's  eyes  they  each  discerned 

New  worlds;   for  she,  above  the   cook-stove's 

heat, 

Dreamed,  as  she  worked,  helping  her  mother  cook: 
He,  where  the  sun  blazed  down,  with  visions  shook 

While  grappling  with  the  pouring  hills  of  wheat. 

Their  growing  love  seized  on  each  idle  space, 
And  Anson  with  his  sun-browned  boyish  face 

Walked  with  her  Sundays.    Sweet  the  thrill  that 

comes 

When  all  the  banners  of  the  heart  unroll 
And  all  the  flowers  of  life  break  in  the  soul 

And     Fancy     marches     with    her     fifes     and 
drums.    .    .    . 

The  prairie  like  a  purple  map  spread  far, 
And  here  and  there  a  village  like  a  star 


196 


SUNFLOWERS 


Flashed  in  the  distance;  they  sat  on  a  hill 
Hand  mixed  with  hand ;  the  sky  wall,  far  away, 
Seemed  to  push  out  and  break  beyond  the  day 

Until  its  blue  edge  touched  God's  window  sill. 

At  any  moment  something  might  look  out 
Divine,  of  that  the  lovers  held  no  doubt ; 

They  floated  in  eternity  together. 
They  leaned  against  a  ledge  whose  lime-traced  shell 
Into  the  depths  of  some  old  ocean  fell 

And  now  lay  bared  beneath  the  tooth  of  weather. 

Tears  rushed  up  in  their  eyes ;  a  sacred  awe 
Came  on  them  out  of  space.    Their  spirits  saw 

The  meaning  of  the  Man  and  Woman's  tryst. 
All  that  religions  sanction  or  condemn 
Swept  like  a  prairie  whirlwind  over  them: 

And  they  were  caught  to  heaven  as  they  kissed. 

A  mover's  wagon,  passing  at  the  base 

Of  Pawnee  Rock,  again  brought  time  and  space 

Into  their  ken,  and,  light  at  heart  as  birds, 
Homeward  they  strolled  along  the  winding  way, 
Feeling  within  their  hearts  as  ones  that  pray, 

Without  a  word,  beyond  the  need  of  words. 

Flashing  along  the  fence  a  striped  squirrel  ran. . 
On  either  side  the  road,  right  fair  to  scan, 

Leaned   crowds  of   sunflowers   full   of   golden 
faces. 


197 


SUNFLOWERS 


A  crimson-budded  cactus  here  and  there 
Spread  earlike  where  the  ground  was  baked  and  bare ; 
And  wood  doves  cooed  and  cooed  in  shady  places. 

Homeward  the  lovers  passed,  as  much  at  peace 
As  was  the  stainless  sky  where  trailed  no  fleece 

Of  golden  cloud ;  the  sun  sank  red  and  low, 
Flinging  out  bands  of  tranquil  evening  light, 
While  in  the  east  the  purple  fringe  of  night 

Began  to  widen  upward  and  to  grow. 

But  jolly  Bob,  his  mirth  was  soured  with  gloom; 
(Tis  fate,  I  guess  —  two  men  in  the  same  room 
May  sleep  when  lightning  strikes,  one  go  un- 

/shent)  ; 

Love  had  struck  Bob,  too,  but:  "  It  cannot  be." 
Thus  she  had  spoken;  and  so,  gloomily 

He  stuffed  his-  suitcase,  damned  his  luck,  and 
went. 

"  This  Kansas,  how  I  hate  it."    Bob  began, 
"  It  was  the  last  in  the  Creator's  plan  — 

He  took  the  leavings  when  all  else  was  made." 
"Not  so,"  quoth  John.     "It  was  the  first  begun: 
Here  Eden  stood  when  the  round  world  was  done.*" 

"  It  has  gone  back  since  then,"  the  other  said ; 

"I  hate  it.    ...    This  won't  last  long    .    .    . 
Soon  a  draught 


.198 


SUNFLOWERS 


Will  bring  its  wealth  and  boastf ulness  to  naught : 

'Twas  meant  for  coyotes,  rattlesnakes  and  steers ; 
Some  day  the  locusts  will  rain  down  again 
As  they've  done  in  the  memory  of  men." 

"  There  is  no  danger,  Bob ;  those  lean-ribbed 
years 

"  Have  gone  forever.    Rich  in  wheat  and  corn 
And  crowding  herds,  redeemed  from  reach  of  scorn, 

Serene  like  a  great  Titaness  she  stands, 
My  dear  loved  Kansas,  in  herself  secure,' 
No  more  a  jesting-stock  or  barren  lure, 

She  feeds  the  hungry  nations  with  both  hands." 

"  Oh,  very  well  —  adopt  the  blasted  State. 
I'm  sorry  that  I've  got  an  hour  to  wait 

Until  my  train  comes.    Then  I'll  bid  good-bye 
To  sand  and  chiggers,  bearded  grain  that  crawls 
Like  something  living  up  one's  overalls, 

And  hell-hot  plains  top-heavy  with  blue  sky." 

So  John  swung  on  his  heel  and  homeward  rode 
With  head  and  shoulders  high,  while  evening  glowed 

With  sunset  pinnacles  of  gold  and  fire. 
Dreams  of  the  future  filled  his  breast  with  joy  — 
For  all  the  Man  had  wakened  in  the  boy ; 

And  in  his  heart  there  was  a  man's  desire. 

Harry  Kemp 


199 


The  Washerwoman's  Song 

In  a  very  humble  cot, 

In  a  rather  quiet  spot, 

In  the  suds  and  in  the  soap, 
Worked  a  woman  full  of  hope ; 

Working,  singing,  all  alone, 

In  a  sort  of  undertone. 

"  With  the  Savior  for  a  friend, 
He  will  keep  me  to  the  end." 

Sometimes  happening  along, 

I  had  heard  the  semi-song, 
And  I  often  used  to  smile, 
More  in  sympathy  than  guile; 

But  I  never  said  a  word 

In  regard  to  what  I  heard, 

As  she  sang  about  her  friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 

Not  in  sorrow  nor  in  glee 
Working  all  day  long  was  she, 
As  her  children,  three  or  four, 
Played  around  her  on  the  floor ; 
But  in  monotones  the  song 
She  was  humming  all  day  long: 
"With  the  Savior  for  a  friend, 
He  will  keep  me  to  the  end." 


200 


SUNFLOWERS 


It's  a  song  I  do  not  sing, 

For  I  scarce  believe  a  thing 
Of  the  stories  that  are  told 
Of  the  miracles  of  old; 

But  I  know  that  her  belief 

Is  the  anodyne  of  grief, 

And  will  always  be  a  friend 
That  will  keep  her  to  the  end. 

Just  a  trifle  lonesome  she, 
Just  as  poor  as  poor  could  be ; 
But  her  spirits  always  rose 
Like  the  bubbles  in  the  clothes, 
And,  though  widowed  and  alone, 
Cheered  her  with  the  monotone, 
Of  a  Savior  and  a  friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 

I  have  seen  her  rub  and  scrub, 
On  the  washboard  in  the  tub, 

While  the  baby,  sopped  in  suds, 
Rolled  and  tumbled  in  the  duds; 
Or  was  paddling  in  the  pools, 
With  old  scissors  stuck  in  spools ; 

She  still  humming  of  her  friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 

Human  hopes  and  human  creeds 
Have  their  root  in  human  needs; 


201 


SUNFLOWERS 


And  I  should  not  wish  to  strip 
From  that  washerwoman's  lip 
Any  song  that  she  can  sing, 
Any  hope  that  songs  can  bring; 
For  the  woman  has  a  friend 
Who  will  keep  her  to  the  end. 

Eugene  F.  Ware 


The  Eyes  of  Lincoln 


Sad  eyes,  that  were  patient  and  tender,  sad  eyes, 
that  were  steadfast  and  true,  and  warm  with  the  un 
changing  splendor  of  courage  no  ills  could  subdue ! 
Eyes  dark  with  the  dread  of  the  morrow,  and  woe 
for  the  day  that  was  gone,  the  sleepless  companions 
of  sorrow,  the  watchers  that  witnessed  the  dawn. 
Eyes  tired  with  the  clamor  and  goading,  and  dim 
from  the  stress  of  the  years,  and  hollowed  by  pain 
and  foreboding,  and  strained  by  repression  of  tears. 
Sad  eyes  that  were  wearied  and  blighted,  by  visions 
of  sieges  and  wars,  now  watch  o'er  a  country  united 
from  the  luminous  slopes  of  the  stars ! 

Walt  Mason 


2O2 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  Little  Green  Tents 


The  little  green  tents  where  the  soldiers  sleep,  and 
the  sunbeams  play  and  the  women  weep,  are  covered 
with  flowers  today;  and  between  the  tents  walk  the 
weary  few,  who  were  young  and  stalwart  in  'sixty- 
two,  when  they  went  to  the  war  away.  The  littlfe 
green  tents  are  built  of  sod,  and  they  are  not  long, 
and  they  are  not  broad,  but  the  soldiers  have  lots  of 
room;  and  the  sod  is  part  of  the  land  they  saved, 
when  the  flag  of  the  enemy  darkly  waved,  the  symbol 
of  dole  and  doom.  The  little  green  tent  is  a  thing 
divine;  the  little  green  tent  is  a  country's  shrine, 
where  patriots  kneel  and  pray;  and  the  brave  men 
left,  so  old,  so  few,  were  young  and  stalwart  in  'sixty- 
two,  when  they  went  to  the  war  away ! 

Walt  Mason 


203 


SUNFLOWERS 


The  Stars  Above  Mt.  Oread 


We  walked  across  the  hill  one  night, 

One  summer  night  —  Oh,  years  ago ! 
And  watched  each  timid  valley  light 

Peer  through  the  darkness  down  below. 
When  suddenly  he  raised  his  head  ' 

In  that  quick,  boyish  way  he  had : 
"  There  are  no  stars  like  these,"  he  said, 

"  That  shine  above  Mount  Oread !  " 

I  watched  the  struggling  valley  lights 

Push  bravely  out  against  the  dark 
The  while  his  fancy's  quickened  flights 

Bridged  all  the  years  and  made  his  mark. 
Youth  and  ambition  know  no  bars, 

And  these  —  and  faith  —  were  all  he  had ; 
So  his  hopes  rose  and  touched  the  stars 

That  night  upon  Mount  Oread. 

In  after  years  sometimes  he  sent 

A  word  of  hail  across  the  way. 
But  how  those  drifting  years  were  spent, 

Or  what  they  brought,  he  did  not  say, 
Nor  could  I  guess.    Yet  once,  alone, 

He  wrote,  half  jestingly,  half  sad: 
"  There  are  no  stars  like  those  that  shone 

That  night  above  Mount  Oread ! " 


204 


SUNFLOWERS 


Tonight  I  watched  them  down  below, 

The  valley  lights,  now  bright,  now  dim, 
And  wondered  what,  of  weal  or  woe, 

The  fickle  years  had  brought  to  him 
Who  once,  when  all  his  world  was  young, 

Had  dreamed  his  dream  of  fame,  dear  lad ! 
And  dared  to  set  his  hopes  among 

The  stars  above  Mount  Oread. 

Esther  M.  Clark 


The  Real  Victor 


"  He  won  the  prize,"  they  said,  and  told  me  how 
Fortune  had  smiled,  and  placed  the  chaplet  on  his 

brow. 

I  watched  him  as  he  passed  along  the  street, 
Marked  and  envied  by  all  he  chanced  to  meet ; 
On  his  strong  face  was  written,  clear  and  plain, 
Scorn  of  all  things,,  arrogance,  disdain. 
Eagerly  I  sought  the  faiths  it  used  to  wear, 
For  that  fine  early  frankness,  full  and  fair. 
Surprised  and  sad,  I  turned  away  my  head, 
"  The  world  says  he  won  —  but  no,  he  lost,"  I  said. 
Once  he  was  master  of  himself,  strong,  brave  — 
Today  his  face  seals  him  his  own  slave. 
Since  he  has  won  that  which  he  most  desired, 
The  altars  die  that  once  the  pure  flame  fired. 
True,  he  has  won  the  prize  —  a  gaudy  jewel  — 
Has  won  the  prize,  and  found  himself  a  fool. 

"  He  strove  to  win  the  prize,  but  failed,"  they  said, 
And  pointed,  jeering,  at  his  bowed,  bared  head. 
I  paused  to  watch  him  as  he  stood  that  morn 
Disregarding  alike  men's  pity,  and  men's  scorn; 
He  raised  his  head,  I  scanned  his  face  with  care, 
Seeking  if  envy,  hate,  or  lust,  were  there. 
No,  it  was  stamped  with  strength  and  manly  pride, 
Love,  hope,  the  power  to  suffer  and  to  hide. 
Rejoicing,  I  stepped  quickly  to  his  side, 


206 


SUNFLOWERS 


"  The  world  says  he  lost,  but  no,  he  won,"  I  cried. 
Though  once  afraid  to  trust  himself,  to  choose  his 

way  — 

He  is  the  refuge  of  the  weak,  fear  of  the  false,  today. 
As  he  has  failed  to  win  his  great  desire 
Still  in  his  eyes  he  bears  the  unfading  fire. 
True,  he  has  lost  the  prize  —  I  grasped  his  hand  — 
Has  lost  the  prize,  but  won  a  prize  unplanned. 

Dorothy  Station 


207 


SUNFLOWERS 


Ad  Vivos 


I,  once  a  man,  now  safe  in  dust  and  slumber, 

Did  watch,  as  thou,  the  days  die  one  by  one, 
And  thought  —  nor  ceased  to  think  —  how  few  their 

number, 

Till  they  were  gone  — 
Till  they  were  done. 

As  thou  dost  look,  I  looked  with  awe  and  yearning 

To  skies  of  stars,  to  skies  filled  full  of  suns, 
For  trace  of  gods ;  and  midst  all  light  there  burning 
I  found  but  one  — 
Found  only  One. 

Then  turned  I  earthward,  heart  aflame  with  longing, 

To  men  and  wives,  to  folk  of  joy  and  dole, 
And  found  in  mine  own  kind,  stars'  light  outshining, 
'  —  Godlike  with  love 
And  part  of  One  — 
The  human  soul  — 
The  moral  soul  — 
The  selfless  soul. 

Kate  Stephens 


208 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

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